


Sharing the Magic

by AuburnRed



Series: Connected by the Magic [2]
Category: Fraggle Rock
Genre: Alcoholism, Character Death, Environmentalism, Family, Fraggle Rock U.K., Friendship, Gen, Mentally ill parents, attempted suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-02
Updated: 2015-04-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 22:40:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3667860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuburnRed/pseuds/AuburnRed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Connected by the Magic." After a death, the Fraggles decide that its time to share the magic with P.K. and heal the rift between their British Silly Creature friends for their sake and the sake of the Rock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Keep Those Worry Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we bid farewell to The Captain and Gobo and Red discover an ongoing rift between two British Silly Creatures that they know rather well.

Sharing the Magic  
By Auburn Red  
A Fraggle Rock U.K. fanfic  
Summary: Fraggle Rock U.K. fanfic. A sequel to “Connected by the Magic.” After a loss, the Fraggles realize that it’s time to share the magic with P.K. and help heal the rift between their British Silly Creature friends for their sake and the sake of the Rock.

Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to Jim Henson Productions. This is for fun and to help promote the late lamented Fraggle Rock UK (BTW: BFI release the episodes so they can go on DVD/Blu Ray and maybe on the Internet so we poor Americans can see them too! D). The lyrics to “The Friendship Song” and “Follow Me” are by Phil Balsam and Dennis Lee. Since the Internet information is scanty on these fine British Silly Creatures, much of the background information and personalities are based on my observations and theories about these two. If anything is blatantly wrong, please let me know.

Author’s Note: This is dedicated to the memories of Jerry Nelson (1934-2012), Gerard Parkes (1924-2014), and Fulton MacKay (1922-1987). Thanks for being a part of a wonderful series that touched us for over 30 years. 

Chapter One: Can’t Keep Those Worry Blues Away

Gobo was planning his latest expedition into Outer Space to an amused Sprocket and an actually-interested-but-pretending-to-be-bored Red. “So Red the way I see it is if we get inside those animals that Silly Creatures carry with their hands, we can go exploring beyond the Gorg-like Castle.” Sprocket shook his head barking in “here we go again” manner. Sometimes the dog felt like a babysitter when the hyperactive and easily amused Fraggles ran around the hotel/castle and his master, B.J. was on his rounds.  
Red started. She was afraid to explore beyond the castle, but she didn’t want to own up to it. “Yeah sure Gobo, you would never do it!” Red challenged. “Those animals would swallow you in their stomachs faster than you can say the Solemn Fraggle Oath! Besides you’d be too scared.”  
“No I wouldn’t,” Gobo said. “Watch the next Silly Creature who comes by with a Carrying Animal then we’ll see who is brave enough to jump in!”  
“Oh yeah,” Red said.  
“Yeah,” Gobo repeated.  
The door to the bedroom flew open as Red and Gobo’s British human friend, B.J. Birtwhistle entered with a carry-on baggage in his hand. “You were saying?” Red taunted pointing to the “Carrying Animal” in B.J.’s hands as he stuffed overnight traveling clothes and other things inside.  
Gobo gasped frightened that B.J. appeared to be feeding the Carrying Animal and didn’t want to be its next meal. “Hey B.J.,” he asked friendly. “What’s going on?”  
“Hi Gobo, Red,” B.J. said. He sounded rushed. “I don’t have time to talk now. I have to leave.”  
The two Fraggle friends exchanged glances. “Where are you going?” Red inquired. “On some adventure?”  
“Can we come?” Gobo asked excited to see this new world up close that Uncle Matt told him about.  
“No, I’m afraid not mates,” B.J. said. “I’m off to a funeral of someone I hadn’t seen in some time now.” Temporarily, his movements slowed as he mechanically packed his bags. He wasn’t sure how much the Fraggles understood. “A funeral is what happens when someone dies-“Maybe he was going too fast. “Death is-“  
“We know what a funeral is,” Red objected. “It’s sort of a party when someone that you love isn’t around anymore. You honor the good things about them and the times you had.”  
Gobo nodded. “We had one many, many days ago for the World’s Oldest Fraggle. Well he’s not the World’s Oldest Fraggle anymore.” He added sheepishly. “I guess he’s the World’s Most Recently Deceased Fraggle, but that’s too long a name.”  
B.J. looked confused. Some things that the Fraggles said were highly unusual and he was learning to take such comments in stride. He knew that they had emotions, but were often very child-like and joyful when they had them except for Mokey who was very introspective and Boober who was a born worrier. Death to them was simply one more adventure that the Living didn’t get to go yet.  
B.J. nodded. “Well I found out today that he died and I want to go honor him, to pay my respects to his family, and to make up for-to say I’m sorry.”  
“What did you do?” Red asked curiously.  
“It’s not something that I did,” B.J. answered. “It was something that was done to him and I was a part of it or rather my family was. I never got the chance to apologize.”

The Fraggle friends looked surprised. B.J. and their North American friend, Doc, were the nicest humans, okay the only humans, that they ever knew. What could he have done that was so terrible that destroyed another Silly Creature? “I can’t talk now,” B.J. said. “I have to go.” He leaned down to his dog friend. “Sprocket, you wait here! Mrs. Gibbons will look after you.” Sprocket barked in protest. He didn’t like being left alone any more than the Fraggles did. “No, Sprocket,” B.J. commanded. “Wait here! You can’t come this time.The Captain’s funeral is no place for a dog-“He winced. He momentarily forgot that the Captain was Sprocket’s first owner.  
Sprocket’s face drooped and he whined and barked in sad protest. He galumphed on top of B.J.’s carry-on like a small child. He even sort of crossed his front paws in defiance as if saying “if I don’t go, you don’t either.” There were tears in the dog’s eyes and he whimpered remembering the old sailor/lighthouse keeper who used to play chess, loved bird watching and the sea. How could B.J. stand there and think that his grief was greater than Sprocket’s?  
Sprocket whimpered. “Oh Sprockey, I’m sorry,” B.J. said petting his furry friend. “You never got to say good-bye to the Captain either did you? You can come.” He said. “Mrs. Wiggit said that she’ll put me up for a couple of days. I’ll call her and see if she’ll take two. And you’ll get to see P.K. again!” Sprocket panted excited. “Red, Gobo wait here,” he told the Fraggles. He turned to make the phone calls to Mrs. Wiggit and Mrs. Gibbons. 

“Here’s our chance,” Gobo said to Red. He wrote a quick note to Mokey, Wembley, and Boober and threw it in the Fraggle Hole. The note said that he and Red were on an adventure with B.J. and Sprocket and will be back soon. Gobo zipped open the carry-on bag and put one foot inside. “B.J. sounds like he’s in trouble. Maybe we ought to go help him.”  
“Now look Gobo you don’t have to get eaten to prove you’re brave,” Red whimpered.  
“Do you want to come?” Gobo asked. “Or are you scared?”  
“I’m not scared,” Red bickered. “Just don’t come crying to me after you’ve been digested!”  
Gobo held open the flap confused. “How can I come crying to you after I’ve been digested?”  
Red was flabbergasted. “Well- Uh-None of your business!” Red said after not finding an answer as she came in after him and shut the flap behind them. 

“Well that’s that then,” B.J. said as he hung up. He put some of Sprocket’s things like his food dish and toys in the bag missing the grunts of pain. “Gobo, Red?” He called. When he didn’t see them in his room, he shrugged. “They probably went back in the hole. Anyway, I got time off, got Sprocket’s things, my things, called Mrs. Wiggit, Mrs. Gibbons. Called the care facility, so they can tell me if-well I’ll look in on Dad after the funeral.”  
He mentally went over the items on his to-do list, then sighed. This to-do list seemed longer every day. He looked at the stack of past-due bills. He hadn’t even made a dent in the debts that his father owed and he was working to pay off. He knew that when he returned that he would have to work more hours, more rounds, maybe even talk Mr. Pettijohn, the estate manager, to give him more responsibilities.  
If that wasn’t bad enough, B.J’s father’s health was deteriorating. The people at the private care center would tell B.J. If he had fallen off the wagon again but how soon would it be before the next blow fell?  
B.J. felt overwhelmed. The only ones that he talked to were Sprocket and the Fraggles and they wouldn’t understand his problems. Maybe, he could wire his American friend, Doc, but he had already given him money which he insisted that the young man did not have to pay back. The younger man was too proud to ask for any more. B.J. had no one to talk to or share his burdens with. How could a person be depended on by so many people (and in his case dog and Fraggles) and still feel so alone?  
Well, he thought, stiff upper. No use worrying about it now. He cleared his throat and picked up his carry-on. “I guess we’re ready to go.” He connected Sprocket’s leash with his collar and gently led him out of the bedroom, carry-on bag in hand. He locked the door and wasn’t listening to an embarrassed and sheepish male Fraggle voice saying “Garbax, gumbage, whoopee.” 

B.J. opened the door to his temporary bedroom in Mrs. Wiggit’s rooming house. Well appearing in Fraggle Rock Island again had not been nearly as bad as he thought it would be. No one threw him out of town on a rail or tarred and feathered him, yet. Mrs. Wiggit had been as kind as ever and told the young man to “never mind what people say, laddie. It’s good you’re here.” I wish I could never mind, B.J. thought. B.J. watched as Sprocket looked out the window at his old home. Because of his sense of smell and hearing, the dog could tell that things were different in the village. He also was coming to terms with the loss of his old friend. The dog’s nose moved up and down and he barked sadly as if asking where the people were that he knew.  
B.J. dressed in his Midshipman Royal Naval uniform for the funeral, then sat on the bed motionless. “It’s not the place you remember is it, Sprocket?” he asked. “It’s not the place I remember either. I haven’t been back here in such a long time.”  
Sprocket barked in agreement. B.J. absently patted his friend trying to hold back any emotion, as he unzipped the bag. He gasped in surprise as an orange male Fraggle and a yellow female Fraggle emerged from the bag. “We survived getting digested,” Gobo caught his breath. “I thought we’d never get out!”  
“You thought we’d never get out, I knew we would the whole time,” Red argued. She looked around the room. “Hey getting digested looks an awful lot like hours ago.” 

“What are you two doing in here?” B.J. said surprised to see his friends. “I told you to stay at the hotel.”  
“We thought you meant while you were talking to the Talking Creature,” Red said innocently.  
“Yeah,” Gobo agreed jumping on his friend’s excuse. “You didn’t say anything about afterward.”  
B.J. glared knowing that they hadn’t misunderstood and were being deliberately obtuse. “This is a solemn occasion and I really can’t deal with your silliness right now,” he shouted frustrated, running his hands through his hair.  
Gobo and Red were shocked at what the Silly Creature had said. It was as though he asked them to turn into Doozers. “But we are silly and we thought you liked that,” Gobo said.  
B.J. sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I do,” he said. The Fraggles always did have a talent of cheering him up in the lowest of times. “I’m sorry. You know I’ve been very tense and have had a lot on my mind lately.”  
“Isn’t that when you need friends the most?” Red asked concerned.  
B.J. thought for a while. “I suppose you are right.” He smiled. “If I were a smart Silly Creature, I would march you two straight to the lighthouse and send you back through the Fraggle Hole faster than you can blink. But, you came this way and it’s a good thing I’m not. Oh well, you might as well come but under these conditions: you remain in my carry-on bag and don’t let yourselves be seen and don’t cause any trouble.”  
“B.J. no one can see us but you, Doc, and the Sprockets,” Gobo reminded him.  
“Well you don’t want to take that chance do you,” B.J. reminded them. “I worry about you lot. Not every Silly Creature is like Doc and me. Some can be very cruel and unkind.  
Believe me, you don’t want to meet the cruel ones.”  
“Are we going to get eaten by the Carrying Animal again?” Red asked.  
“It’s not an animal, Red. It’s a bag. You carry things inside. “B.J. began. When the Fraggles still looked doubtful, B.J. shook his head, “You’ll be alright, trust me.” The Fraggles shrugged and jumped back in the bag.

 

The ship had yet to take off when B.J. walked up to the dock to face the mourners. He approached the boat gingerly in his uniform and his bag in hand. Sprocket, sensing the solemnity of the occasion, remained at B.J.’s feet silent occasionally letting out a sad whimper that was only comforted by his owner’s reassuring hand on his head. He even wore a black collar that B.J. impulsively bought at a rest area. Many other mourners were dressed in black, some wearing their Naval or seafaring uniforms, others in plain dress. B.J. placed the bag down at his feet and sat far from the front. He could see a few people bear their eyes into him and whisper to each other. He swore he heard one person mutter, “Didn’t think he had the gumption to show up.” An old-time fisherman spat in B.J’s direction. The young man sighed. It was the least he deserved.  
B.J. avoided the glances of the onlookers and look out at the horizon of Fraggle Rock Island, the human world that lay above the Fraggle world. He tried his best to ignore the “For Sale” signs on the houses and buildings, the polluted water, and the boats which were more stationary than moving around. He especially didn’t want to look at the lighthouse which once held a thousand friendly memories of people running it, including himself, but was now a testament to the cold impersonality of automation. The lighthouse still seemed to work, that he could see, but everything else in the village from the lessening cry of the gulls now reduced in number, to the rainbow colors that emerged from the water, to the now partially abandoned harbor front seemed to say “Your family caused this! It’s your fault!” 

B.J. winced and looked towards the helm of the boat where the family members, or rather sole family member, stood. A lanky ginger haired man about his age stood at the front next to the vicar. He was dressed in a Royal Naval Seaman uniform and surprisingly his curls seemed to behave themselves, straightened for the solemn occasion. P.K. Barnacle was caught up in conversation and did not see the newcomer and his dog until he heard Sprocket’s whimper. He smiled at the dog, but glowered in buried anger at the human.  
He purposely avoided B.J.’s sad smile and turned back to the vicar and another man who stood at the helm. In P.K.’s hands lay a blue and white urn with an anchor design. The young man nodded at the sailor as the sailor turned the boat on. P.K. stood with the urn in hand until the sailor stopped in the ocean where the harbor was nothing but a line on the horizon.  
The vicar stood. “Thank you everyone for attending this memorial to Captain Barnacle. Refreshments will be available afterward at the Captain’s Tavern. Now, his  
nephew, Patrick Kenneth Barnacle will present the eulogy. Mr. Barnacle.” He nodded at the young man.  
P.K. approached the podium, which had been placed on the boat for the funeral. “Thank you everyone for coming and thank you, Vicar Edwards, for that introduction and  
helping to arrange this funeral.” He cleared his throat as if to bury the emotions. He held up the urn. “As many know my Uncle Captain Fulton Barnacle was a man of the sea. It was his second home, nay, it was his first. The land was just the place he visited for a brief time.” The people laughed at the memory of the seafaring elderly man. “He always believed that everything good that ever was came from the sea. It’s where we came from, where life is, and where we would go to, eventually. So it made sense to take care of it like you would your family, even if others don’t necessarily agree.” P.K.’s words temporarily became angry. He glared for a moment in B.J’s direction. B.J. looked down in shame. P.K. continued. “I will always remember him as a man who stood proudly at the helm of his ship to face another storm, a man who tended the lighthouse with such care and precision, a man who would always tell of his sailing yarns until you couldn’t stand to hear ‘em. Someone who took a wayward orphaned lad out of Care determined to make a man of him,” He caught his breath. P.K. winced once again. “That’s how I want to remember him and that’s how I want all of you to remember him as a strong powerful captain who loved the sea. Not the man lying in the hospital who was weak and defenseless, away from his home, nor this-“He held up the urn. “-ashes in a jar. Don’t think on that, think on the real man, my Uncle Fulton.” P.K. turned away from the podium and moved towards the edge of the stern. He opened the jar and gently sprinkled the ashes into the sea. “Enjoy your last voyage, Captain,” he said as he saluted the spirit of his uncle. 

The boat landed back on the harbor as the funeral goers headed to the reception. B.J. trailed behind many of the crowd with Sprocket by his side. He could hear a tap-tap in the bag. B.J. opened the bag slightly to hear his Fraggle friends. “Yeah?” he asked.  
“That’s so sad what that Silly Creature said about his uncle. It sounds like me and my Uncle Traveling Matt,” Gobo said wistfully.  
“Yeah who knew someone else had a goofy uncle too,” Red said affecting some gallows humor to hide her empathetic sadness too.  
B.J. nodded. “P.K. and the Captain were pretty close. His folks died when he was a lad and the Captain looked after him. He took sick a couple of years ago and I suppose P.K. returned the favor by taking care of him.”  
“Definitely sounds like me and Uncle Traveling Matt,” Gobo replied. “Well except for him being sick. If Uncle Matt ever got sick, you bet I would look after him.”  
“I know you would,” B.J. said proudly. “P.K. and I went to school together. I used to know him pretty well. We were friends, once.”  
“Aren’t you still friends even if you don’t live near each other,” Red asked.  
“It’s more than that,” he replied. “There were other reasons.” He could feel someone staring at him. A couple of older women pointed and whispered at him. B.J. suddenly felt daft that people assumed that he was talking to himself. “It’s complicated. I’ll explain later, but he’s another reason I’m here.” He said as he zipped the bag and he and Sprocket entered the tavern.  
B.J. and Sprocket made their way through the crowded tavern. B.J. approached the bar excusing himself between two fishermen. As soon as they saw the young man, they immediately rose and let him pass as though B.J. had some contagious disease.  
B.J. called the woman behind the bar, “Doris, a lager please?” The woman said nothing as she poured the drink and practically slammed it down in front of the brown haired man. “Thank you,” he said trying to maintain politeness. “They miss my family here you can tell.” B.J. said dryly to his dog. 

P.K. who up until then had been in a circle with other people sharing a round with laughs and some tears about his uncle, held up a hand to his companions and approached B.J.  
He broke into a lop-sided grin as he knelt down to Sprocket. “Hey laddie,” Sprocket leapt up barking with delight to his former master. P.K. laughed less annoyed than he pretended as Sprocket practically tackled the young Scotsman. “Alright get off me you brute. I missed you too, boyeen!” He held up a rubber ball as Sprocket playfully chewed on it. “You seem to be alright then.”  
“Yeah he is,” B.J. said smiling shyly hoping that this meant that it would be an easy conversation between the two.  
P.K.’s friendly expression dropped as he stood and faced the brown haired man. He glared stone faced at B.J. “I have nothing to say to you!” He turned away as B.J. gathered his courage and grabbed P.K.’s arm.  
“P.K. wait,” B.J. said. “I’m really sorry for your uncle.” He realized how trite it sounded under the circumstances. “I know people just say things like that, but I really am and I’m sorry for everything before that, for how everything ended up.”  
P.K. scoffed. “It’s too late for that.”  
“I know,” B.J. answered. “ If there’s anything I can do to help you, I want to. I just would like to help you, if we could be friends again.”

The ginger haired man whirled to face the other man, his eyes blazing. “You don’t understand a damn thing do you? You think a few words, perhaps a few pounds thrown our way, could make up for it? Don’t you know what taking away the lighthouse and the oceans did to him? It killed him, you killed him, as surely as any stroke did!”  
“I wasn’t a part of that,” B.J. said. “My father sold the lighthouse. I was sacked too after the owners automated it.”  
“Did you fight it?” P.K. asked scornfully.  
“I tried to argue with him about it,” B.J. said. “But the deal was done and there was nothing more I could do or say.”  
P.K. laughed sarcastically as he clapped his hands. He then doused another drink down. “Why that practically makes you a hero doesn’t it that you tried to argue. I am impressed.”  
B.J. said sadly. “I know it can’t fix it. The only thing that I can do is help repair the damage by saying I’m sorry.”  
“Nothing can fix it,” P.K. said. “Nothing can bring back the fish, or the gulls. Nothing can bring this village back or the people and nothing, nothing, can bring my uncle back!” He laughed and held up his glass as a mock-toast. “You can go back to your dad and give him an appraisal of his handiwork!” He took another sip in deep thought. “Oh you can give him something else!” P.K. put down his mug and reached over to B.J. He punched B.J., sending the caretaker to the ground. Some of the other patrons gasped and many even applauded. B.J. rose and looked at P.K. with equal parts sadness, sorrow, and spent anger. He then picked up the bag which fell underneath some chairs when B.J. fell and left the tavern with Sprocket barking behind him. 

B.J. waited until he was back in the rooming house before he opened the bag. Gobo and Red jumped from the bag, Red had her fists ready. “Why I oughta teach that Silly Creature some manners!” she shouted. “Nobody hits my friends and gets away with it! I’ll give him a knuckle sandwich!” She was about to leave the room as Gobo grabbed onto Red’s tail and B.J. held her body to keep her from moving. Red continued to push forward despite the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere. “I’m gonna give him a one-two now don’t stop me!” B.J. picked up the energetic female Fraggle in the air. She continued to curse and threaten P.K. until she realized that her feet were no longer on the ground.  
“Thank you, Red,” B.J. said. “I appreciate your loyalty, but it won’t change anything.”  
“Well he shouldn’t say things like that about you,” Red argued as B.J. put her down. “Lying and saying that you killed his uncle! No one lies about my friends!”  
B.J. sank down on the bed surrounded by his dog and Fraggle friends. “He wasn’t lying. What he said was true, in a way.”  
Gobo, Red, and Sprocket looked at their human friend in shock. Sometimes when they were in either Doc or B.J’s parts of Outer Space they would watch things called movies or television. Sometimes the Silly Creatures would kill other Silly Creatures on them.  
Their human friends would often be quick to explain that it was only entertainment and that the people were acting. But there were some Silly Creature entertainments called “The News,” that they said was real. Most of the Silly Creatures on those entertainments who killed others were cruel or selfish. Was B.J. really one of those cruel unkind Silly Creatures that he warned the Fraggles about?  
“You killed someone how?” Gobo asked. 

“I didn’t actually kill him,” B.J. said. “It’s hard to explain. You see here in Outer Space, my father and I were like the Gorgs. Look out the window.” He pointed at the window to a large fancy estate on a hill. “We used to live there. Sometimes when we Silly Creatures live there on the hill, we don’t always remember the people who live under the hill like P.K. and his uncle. We sometimes have more money and land than others. My dad even owned the lighthouse and the land around it. When we have that much, sometimes we make decisions that end up hurting a lot of people. We don’t always realize that we hurt them until it’s too late.”  
“But you once told us that you don’t own the castle that you live in,” Gobo said. “You just work there.”  
B.J. smiled and shrugged. “Well I’m not like the Gorgs anymore. Neither is my dad. We lost our money. My dad had to sell the lighthouse and the properties around this island to bigger people than him, I suppose larger Gorgs.”  
“I’d hate to see the size of those Gorgs,” Gobo muttered to Red. Jr. Gorg was a friend of theirs but it took a long time coming. The Fraggle Duo didn’t exactly relish the idea of encountering a Gorg who was larger than their friend.  
B.J. continued. “A lot of these new owners came in and some of the things that they did ruined the waters, so the fish started dying. When the fish start dying, the fishers don’t have anything to do. Many of the people who make their living by the sea in one way or another like dockers or lighthouse workers end up losing their jobs as well. A lot of people are leaving these islands for other places to fish or other kinds of work and more than likely aren’t coming back.”  
“Like you did,” Gobo said.  
B.J. nodded. “So what about that Silly Creature’s uncle?” Red asked.  
“Well some of the bigger shipping companies are squeezing out the smaller sailors like P.K’s uncle. He used to keep the same lighthouse my dad owned and where you met me. He tried sailing for a bit after he finished working there. After him P.K. worked at the lighthouse, then after him was me. Unfortunately, the Captain had been phased out and ultimately discharged. Probably they thought that he was too old to sail. He became sick shortly afterward probably because he couldn’t do what he loved. It made him sad to the point where it made him sick, I suppose.”  
“But that still doesn’t give him the right to punch you,” Red said. “You didn’t do any of that!”  
“No,” B.J. agreed. “But P.K. and many of the other people in the village are angry and they just want someone to be angry with. Perhaps they blame me for my father selling the island or maybe they felt I could have done more.” He lowered his head. “I should have done more. At the time, all I could think of was my own situation that I wasn’t going to be working at the lighthouse anymore and had to find another position and my father-well he is sick too now. Now, it’s all a mess. It is my fault and I can’t fix it. I don’t even know how. I can’t even fix my own life.”  
Gobo and Red reached over and touched their friend’s hands. Sprocket leaned on his legs. “It’s not your fault, B.J.,” Gobo said to his friend.  
“We’re still your friends, it will be alright,” Red reassured him. Sprocket leaned against B.J., his head lay on his owner’s lap. The two Fraggles tried to cheer up their human friend by singing “The Friendship Song:” 

Remember when,  
Now and then,  
Everything went wrong?  
And then our friends would sing,  
The friendship song.

Remember,  
You and I,  
We'd nearly cry,  
To know their love was strong,  
And by and by,  
We'd start to sing along.

We sang,  
Try a little longer,  
For your friends.  
Try a little a stronger,  
For your friends.

You work all night.  
You work all day.  
You still can't keep,  
Those worry blues away.

Try a little longer,  
For your friends.  
Try a little a stronger,  
For your friends.

Life comes up.  
Life goes down.  
There's just one way,  
To keep it,  
Going 'round.

Try a little longer,  
For your friends.  
Try a little a stronger,  
For your friends.

Remember when,  
Now and then,  
Everything went wrong?  
And then our friends would sing,  
The friendship song.

B.J. smiled trying valiantly to hold back his tears. “Thank you,” he said as he circled Red, Gobo, and Sprocket in a hug. It didn’t offer any concrete advice to B.J’s problems, but it was always good to know that he had friends who cared, even if they were furry.


	2. Look Ahead and Keep Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which very bad things are happening both in the Rock and on the Island

Sharing the Magic  
A Fraggle Rock UK fanfic  
By Auburn Red 

Chapter Two: Look Ahead and Keep Breathing 

It was close to evening by the time that Gobo and Red had left B.J. and Sprocket to re-enter Fraggle Rock through the caves. They quickly summed up their adventure and the situation between the two Silly Creatures to the other three Fraggles.  
“P.K. is B.J.’s friend too, maybe he should make up with him,” Mokey suggested as she looked up from her latest “Still Life of a Doozer Construction” painting. “After all friendship is the key to true understanding.” She thought for a minute. “Or is it the key to a bedroom closet? Oh fiddlesticks, I’m sure it will come to me.”  
Wembley nodded. “Yeah, they should be friends again.”  
Boober shook his head. “I don’t know, Gobo. You can’t involve yourself in Silly Creature arguments. They could go on for decades! Do you know how many, many days that is? I was just reading this interesting book that I borrowed from Doc about these two Silly Creatures called “Israel” and “Palestine.” All they do is argue sometimes with weapons!”  
“Yeah sometimes with weapons,” Wembley agreed shivering not knowing what Silly Creature-type weapons were and hoped they weren’t anything like Toe Ticklers.  
“Well we know B.J. just like we know Doc” Gobo objected. “I’ll bet he’s nothing like these “Israel” and “Palestine” guys.”  
Wembley shook his head. “Nope nothing like them!” Gobo shook his head at his best friend and the green yellow-haired Fraggle looked sheepish and embarrassed. “I know stop wembling.” 

“Well I don’t care if he ever makes up with him again,” Red argued. “I still want to punch him!”  
Mokey was shocked at her best friend. “Red Fraggle that is an unkind thing to say!”  
Gobo nodded. “Yeah besides you heard B.J. It won’t change anything.”  
Red sulked. “Well it will make me happier.” She didn’t want to say anything but she didn’t like when any of her friends were left helpless and hurting. Even though B.J. was one of her newest friends, she wanted to help him in the best way she knew how: by defending him with her fists. “Hey look even if B.J. wanted to be friends with P.K., what makes you think that P.K. would want to be friends with him?”  
Gobo put his hand to his chin in deep thought. “I don’t know, Red but P.K. and his uncle remind me an awful lot of me and my Uncle Traveling Matt. I would just know if something happened to him, I would want my friends to be with me even if I acted like I didn’t want to be with them, eh.”  
Red rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t make any sense at all.”  
“Besides it’s none of our business,” Boober said. “We aren’t Silly Creatures. We’re Fraggles. Silly Creatures have their own problems.”  
“Silly Creature or not isn’t B.J. still our friend?,” Wembley declared in a more determined than usual voice. The others exchanged surprised glances that Wembley had made up his mind about an opinion.

Boober and Red were once again about to object when a familiar voice got the Fraggles’ attention. “HELLLPPP!!” The Fraggle Five looked up to see their friend and particularly Wembley’s Special Friend, Lou run up to them frightened.  
“Lou, what’s wrong?” Wembley could tell instantly that something wasn’t right. The normally tough, even-tempered lavender Fraggle did not usually get this upset. She was out of breath by the time she got to the friends. Wembley tried to steady Lou with his hands.  
“There’s something weird with the water,” she said. “You have to see this!”  
The quintet followed Lou as she breathlessly explained. She and some of the other Fraggles were swimming when Large Marvin did his belly flop. When he came up, the water looked odd as well as Marvin. Marvin had some strange black ooze on him and there were some rainbow colors reflected in the water.  
“Rainbows how pretty,” Mokey said in a daze. “Do you think they came from that farm that your Uncle Traveling Matt was talking about?” She asked Gobo.  
“No,” Lou argued. “It was just in the water, but most of the water is this ugly black color! It looks terrible!”  
The Fraggles followed Lou’s lead. True to Lou’s words, the Fraggle Pond was a mess. It was black, dirty, and had a strong smell that none could identify.  
“Ugh it reminds me of Stink Water,” Red said holding her nose.  
“I thought you cleaned it before we left today,” Gobo told his friend.  
“I did,” Red argued. “It didn’t look like this when we left!”  
“I have never seen anything like this,” Mokey said taking a closer look at the Pond. “How could this have happened?”  
“Only one being would know,” Gobo said. “We better talk to the Trash Heap!”  
The five friends and Lou nodded. “Mind if I come with you?” Lou asked. “This is scaring me.”  
Wembley looked pleadingly at his friends. Boober, Mokey, and Red looked over to Gobo. He shrugged. “I don’t see why not. We’d better go now if we want an answer to this.” 

“Hey while you get an answer will you give me a hand and find an answer to our problem?” A small voice piped up. The Fraggles looked to see their Doozer friend, Cotterpin calling her friends astride on her tiny bulldozer.  
“Sure Cotterpin what’s wrong?” Red asked the tiny creature.  
“We haven’t been getting the materials to make our Doozer Sticks,” she said. “I mean we still have some left over, but we haven’t been getting any new ones. If we don’t get any new materials, we can’t build any new buildings and if we don’t make any new buildings, you know that that means.”  
The Fraggles started concerned. Boober spoke for them all. “No yummy Doozer construction sites.”  
Cotterpin nodded. “So yeah this is pretty serious.”  
“Great,” Red said. “First the Pond, now the Doozer Construction sites. What else could go wrong?” She inwardly moaned realizing how much she sounded like Boober just then.  
“I don’t want to know,” Gobo said. “We’d better get to the Trash Heap before we find out.” 

As the Fraggles made their way through the garden, they could hear a familiar voice call jovially to them. “Hi Fwaggles!”  
“Hi Jr.,” Gobo said as they raced past the Gorg tending the family garden.  
“We can’t play ‘Catch the Fraggles’ today.” Even though Jr. Gorg had long become a friend to all Fraggles especially after he abolished the Gorgian Monarchy, the Fraggles still continued to run from Jr. and he continued to try to catch them. Far from a chase based on fear and misunderstanding, it now became a fun game between the friends. Plus it gave Mokey the official Radish Carrier, a challenge in her work routine.  
“Oh that’s alwight Fwaggles,” Jr. said. “Something’s going wong anyway.”  
Gobo and the other Fraggles stopped in their tracks. “What’s the matter Jr.?” Mokey asked.  
“Well fiwst Mommy’s bathwater came out all yucky and bwack,:” Jr. said. “Then I went to the gawden to pick the wadishes and they all wook wike this!” He showed the Fraggles the radishes. Instead of being brightly colored, they were dull and appeared unappetizing. “They awe aww the same.” Jr. said. “What’s going on?”  
“We don’t know,” Gobo said. “But I think its spreading all through the Rock.” 

“You are in the presence of the All-Knowing-“ began Marjorie the Trash Heap’s shill, Philo  
“-All Seeing,” added the other shill, Gunge.  
“-All Smelling,” Philo continued.  
“-Trash Heap, nyaahhh,” the duo said to their visitors as Marjorie rose from her home.  
“Ah my favorite Fraggles,” the Trash Heap said. “With another face, Lou right?” Lou who only made contact with the Trash Heap a few times and then only with friends was surprised but pleased that the oracle knew her name. “So what’s the buzz, tell me what’s happening?”  
Gobo stepped forward. “Madame Heap we’ve come to ask your advice-“  
“-Well of course you did, Dearie,” the Trash Heap said. “Why else would you be here?”  
“Too true, Marjorie,” Philo added.  
“Too true,” Gunge agreed.  
Gobo summarized the problems that are ocurring at the Rock. “Tell me something I don’t know, darling,” Marjorie said. “I need compost and look at me, I’m wasting away!” The Heap made a dramatic pose. To be truthful, none of the Fraggles initially thought there was anything wrong with her. However on closer examination, there did seem a little bit less of her.  
“Oh Marjorie,” Philo said stunned that he missed it. “Why didn’t you tell us?”  
“We’d have gotten you those things for sure,” Gunge said. The two looked around to see if they could find anything that could be used as more trash for their friend and surrogate mother.  
“I didn’t want to worry you,” the Trash Heap said.  
“Why is all of this happening at once?” Mokey asked. “Did we do something wrong?”  
Marjorie shook her head. She had a far-away look as though something was talking to her. “It was nothing none of us did. Our connections are breaking and need to be strengthened.”  
The six Fraggles exchanged glances. “But we’re all friends here,” Gobo said. “Us the Gorgs, the Doozers, even the Silly Creatures Doc, Sprocket, and B.J. We all get along.”  
“Not all of us,” the Trash Heap said. “There is much hatred and anger between the Silly Creatures, the one you call B.J. and the other Silly Creature.”  
“Doc?” Red asked.  
“P.K.,” Gobo said to his friends.  
“If that’s his name,” the Trash Heap said. “They are losing their way. They need to be brought together so they can save each other and in turn save the Rock. The circle needs to be opened, then it needs to be unbroken. ”  
“But how do we do that, Madame Heap,” Wembley asked before he could get an answer, the Trash Heap sunk back into her trash home.  
Philo and Gunge were just as concerned as the Fraggles over what was happening to their home, but still had a job to do. “The trash heap has spoken, nyaahh!”

B.J. sat inside the rooming house talking on the phone while Sprocket munched on his food in his food dish. He was worried as he spoke to one of his father’s creditors. He knew that he made a mistake in calling his home to see if there were any messages of course there were several, none friendly. “Yes I know what he owes you,” B.J. said running his hands through his hair and pacing back and forth agitated. “But my father is incapacitated right now. I have Power of Attorney over his affairs.”  
“Very well then Mr. Birtwhistle,” the creditor said. “Then you must pay us the £13,000 in back taxes that your father owed.”  
You’ll have to wait in the queue like everyone else, B.J. thought bitterly. “I don’t have that kind of money!” He said aloud.  
“I’m very sorry,” the operator said in a tone that indicated that he wasn’t. “But we must have that money.”  
B.J. sighed. “I’ll see what I can do.” He hung up the phone frustrated. He looked to see Gobo and Red standing next to him. “When did you get here?”  
Rather than answer, Gobo spoke. He and Red volunteered to help B.J. talk to P.K. The others opted to stay behind in the Rock to see if there was anything that they could do to help this situation.“B.J., we need to talk.” 

P.K. Barnacle sat in a chair inside the shack that he and his Uncle Fulton had lived in during the last few months of the Captain’s life. P.K. doused a bottle of whiskey and threw it on the ground. It gave a satisfying shatter. The young man’s head throbbed with the alcohol and the range of emotions that he tried to bury all day. Now he was alone and the reality of the situation was finally hitting him hard. He tried to focus on the present, but his mind kept drifting to childhood memories of the gruff, strong-willed, obstinate but ultimately loving man who raised him:

In his mind’s eye, he saw himself a skinny 12-year-old lad from Edinburgh with more mouth than brains and still hurting over the deaths of his birth parents when he was 8  
and the abandonement from several foster parents in the subsequent years. He remembered the Captain standing over him, a tall built man graying on his beard and temples. The two stood inside the Captain’s boat heading for Fraggle Rock Island the  
place that at the time P.K. simply took to be only his latest foster home. They had just introduced themselves to each other and P.K. used his full name, Patrick Kenneth “but everyone calls me P.K.”  
“P.K. that will be easy to remember,” the Captain said. “Like the Principal Keeper of a lighthouse.” Of course P.K. didn’t realize how prophetic those words were until much later.  
The man and boy kept sizing each other up and down as if daring the other to make the first move. The Captain was the first to speak. “I am not much of a fathering sort,” he began.  
“I worked that out for myself,” P.K. gibed.  
“You have a mouth on you that needs to be looked at,” the Captain challenged him. “My first home is the sea. I never leave her if I can’t help it. That means I am in port at most three or four days a week. The rest of the time I am gone, sometimes for weeks at a stretch. That’s how I am and I am too set in my ways to change, so no concerning yourself with extra quality time that these so-called child specialists are on about. So I need to know that you are the sort that can be trusted. So you’d best get to work.”  
P.K. started. “Work what do you want me to do?”  
“I need you to help me with the rigging, then I need you to lay the anchor and swab the deck,” the Captain said matter-of-factly.  
P.K. felt queasy already at the rocking up and down movements in the choppy water but wasn’t going to own up to it to someone he barely knew. Besides he had learned from previous foster parents to never show any sort of weakness. He faced the old man. “You expect me to do that, I am not your crew!”  
“If you plan to live in my house and eat my food then you are,” the Captain objected. “Now get to work unless you have some reason other than sheer laziness?” P.K. glared and said nothing so the Captain continued. “Now surely you know how to tie a knot?”  
P.K. glared but then reached over to one of the ropes and gave it an expert tie. The Captain walked over in surprise. “That’s right, how did you do that?”  
P.K. was surprised. “I’ve always known how to do this. My dad taught me.” It was one of the few things that P.K. could hold onto from his late father.  
The Captain looked down at the boy’s shoes. They were tied the same way. “Yeah it’s a sailor’s knot. It’s impossible to break once it’s tied. Good thing your father remembered something useful during his time on the Mainland.” The sweet moment was broken as the older man demonstrated some hard tasks such as weighing the anchor and adjusting the sails. He then told him to swab or clean the deck as the boat moved.  
P.K. mopped the deck forcing himself not to keep his eyes on the water. His stomach felt queasy. “You alright then,” The Captain asked.  
“I’m fine,” P.K. snapped as he continued to clean but his stomach swerved. Suddenly, the water and the movement got to him. He sank down to the ground and gave in as he vomited.  
He heard the boat make a sudden jerk and felt it stop. He then became aware of a pair of hands picking him up and leading him to the bow. The Captain forced the boy to lower his head over the water until he was through being sick. “Its alright then, breathe deeper.” Finally, the boy finished vomiting and the Captain sat him down and told him to look ahead. “Look at the horizon. Keep your eyes focused on what’s ahead not what’s below. Just look ahead and keep breathing. You know if you told me that you were seasick, I wouldn’t have made you do this much.”  
P.K. ignored the pointed comment that the old man was trying to make. He breathed deeply feeling flushed and embarrassed. “I shouldn’t be sick or weak,” he said.  
“Nonsense,” the Captain said. “Enough of that. I’ve seen grown men twice your size throw up all of their previous week’s food in less than 10 minutes their first time on a vessel like this. Seasickness happens to everyone especially when you’re not used to sailing. It passes and soon you’ll be as steady on water as you are on land.” He held onto the young man’s shoulders as P.K. breathed in and out, in and out keeping his eyes on the horizon. “You’d best stay here for now. Remember look ahead and keep breathing..”  
“So you don’t want me to do all that work then?” P.K. asked confused.  
The Captain headed for the wheel with a sly grin. “Nah, there will be plenty of other chances for you to do that.” 

P.K. returned to the unwanted present as he looked around the messy shack. “Sorry Uncle,” he said aloud. “It’s hard to look ahead and keep breathing these days.”  
He knew that he needed to get started in removing his uncle’s things figuring out which were rubbish, which were donations, and which he wanted to keep as mementoes. Maybe he would start on that tomorrow. He tried to will himself to get some sleep. He should be able to, after all, it was the first time in almost two years that his sleep schedule wasn’t interrupted by his uncle’s gruff calls or the naval whistle that P.K. “brilliantly” thought that he could use to get his nephew’s attention. His eyes drooped but then flew open as he thought he heard his uncle calling him. The young man ran to the Captain’s bedroom, but his empty bed revealed the truth. P.K. staggered down the stairs to pour himself another drink.  
He stood on shaking legs to the window. Through the darkness, he could see the lighthouse with its ever present light focusing on the sea below. There it was, with its computers and automatic lighting. There were the big cargo ferries on the seas, booming down on the harbor space where his uncle’s small boat used to dock like a large fish in front of a guppy. The anger and rage consumed P.K. With a fury, he opened the window and threw the whiskey bottle in the direction of the lighthouse. If he was able, he would destroy that lighthouse with his bare hands. “You bastards murdered him!” He shouted to the still and uncaring harbor. He slammed the window down and sank to the floor. 

The phone rang, breaking him from his thoughts. His head swam as he reached for it really not in the mood to hear another well-wisher. “‘Aye?” he asked.  
“P.K. how are ya?” he heard the kind maternal voice of his former employer and friend, Meggie Dawson. The female pub owner had been like an older sister to P.K., hiring him as a bartender and part-time musician, and had been a constant source of encouragement with his Uncle.  
“He’s gone,” P.K. said hoarsely. He couldn’t remember if he told her or not. Since his uncle died, he had been constantly talking to one person or another, announcing his death  
and making funeral arrangements.  
“I know you told me,” Meggie assured him. “I just called to see if you needed me to come by.”  
“No, thanks all the same,” P.K. answered. He felt drained. Even talking required more effort than he was willing to give right now. “I’m alright.”  
“You don’t sound alright to me,” Meggie said. “You sound knackered.”  
“I guess I am,” P.K. replied. “I hadn’t much sleep. I thought coming back here would help him. Here, he’d be with friends, places that he knew. Maybe he wouldn’t be so-like he was.” He sighed feeling the lump in his throat get bigger with his words. “But it didn’t. It only made him worse!” How many times did P.K. go to the Captain’s room and see him staring out the window looking at the sea like a long-lost friend or in the middle of a delusion babbling some inanities to an imaginary creature that he called “Matt”? How many times would the Captain’s mood become argumentative, even violent, and would confuse P.K. with the Captain’s late brother, P.K’s father, Eammon, and accuse him of some long-ago resentment that the Captain held? By the end, P.K. answered to both names. Worse, how often when P.K. came home from running errands, panicked at the sight of an empty house, he’d see the Captain outside walking with his limp into the sea, his legs already wet from the tide? P.K. would then gently lead him back into the shack, coaxing him like he would a toddler afraid of the dark, dry him up, and put him to bed.

He cleared his throat. “Meggie, I probably won’t be coming back to work for some time, I’m sorry. I still have some things I have to do out here.”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Meggie assured. “Take your time. We’re doing alright here. Many of the regulars miss you and send their regards.”  
“Tell ‘em thanks,” P.K. said trying to smile.  
“They also miss your concerts,” Meggie said. “I hope you get back to singing again.”  
P.K. sighed. “I don’t think I can. I just don’t have it in me, anymore.”  
“Well maybe it will come back, luv,” the older woman said.  
“Maybe,” P.K. said uncertain. “I have to go.”  
“Well I’ll be thinking of ya,” she said. “Let me know if you are in need of anything.”  
P.K. gave a noncommittal affirmation and good-bye as he hung up the phone. He opened his guitar case. He tried to make the music come to his fingers, but the chords sounded disjointed and off. He tried to force the words to come from his lips but he couldn’t:  
“Every morning,  
Every day  
Every evening-every evening-“

The words couldn’t come. They sounded hollow and distant. A song that he once heard in his head as a child was now no longer there, completely forgotten as though it never had been there. Frustrated, P.K. threw his guitar back in the case and reached for another whiskey. 

The knock pounded into P.K.’s already addled mind. He felt like his head was on fire as he staggered to answer the door. He saw B.J. standing by the door. He looked pale and more than a little terrified as P.K. glared at him. “You lookin’ to get socked again,” P.K. asked, his Scottish accent made even thicker by the whiskey.  
“I just wanted to talk to you,” B.J. said. There was a tense moment as B.J. stepped back concerned that P.K. would punch him again. As he recalled even in their mutual school days, P.K. had a pretty good right hook that didn’t stop with one punch when provoked. Well B.J. wasn’t a meek wallflower either, he could block any blow and certainly strike back if need be. He just hoped that it wouldn’t come to that. Plus, he had some resources who might help. Well Sprocket maybe could growl at him and he wouldn’t dismiss Red’s scrappy capacity for getting into fights if P.K. was aware of her that was.  
“ ‘Tis supposed to be that the grieving family greets anyone to pay respects,” P.K. said. “No rules on how he’s to treat ‘em when they arrive.” He was about to slam the door on B.J.’s face but he sighed and held the door open for the young man to enter. He pointed at Sprocket. “Leave him outside will ya?” he asked. Rather than argue, B.J. fastened a somewhat reluctant Sprocket to the doorpost. He patted the dog, “I’ll be back in a few boy,” he assured him. P.K. looked confused as B.J. seemed to whisper something inside the bag before he entered. 

B.J. entered and set the bag down. The shack was a mess. Paperwork, nautical artifacts, rotten food, clothing, and broken bottles littered the floor. B.J. could smell the odor of whiskey in the air. It made him nauseaus just thinking about it. As bad as the house was, P.K. looked even worse. He had changed from the naval uniform and was now dressed in a blue t-shirt which hung loose from his jeans and his red and black windbreaker jacket which also had the tell-tale stench and stains of alcohol that had dribbled down. P.K.’s curls which always appeared to be a separate entity in themselves now were in complete disarray and tangled under P.K.’s baseball cap. His face looked haggard and unshaven and his eyes were bloodshot. He appeared to have aged almost 10 years since B.J. had seen him last. B.J, tried to be polite but he could only manage, “You look like hell!”  
P.K. laughed. “On the contrary, I didn’t think I looked even that good. Have a seat.” P.K. waved at the settee which was covered with so much stuff, that B.J. had to move them to sit down. B.J. gingerly shifted a few things and lay them next to him as he sat. “Drink?” P.K. asked.  
“Um no thank you,” B.J. asked.  
“Too bad plenty of whiskey to go around,” P.K. said as he opened another bottle.  
“I never cared that much for whiskey,” B.J. answered. Especially these days, he thought bitterly. He winced realizing how elitist that sounded and hoped P.K. didn’t catch it.  
“All there is,” P.K. said sharply. “Sorry you have to humble yourself and miss your wines and cocktails.”  
B.J. could already tell that this was not going to go well. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

P.K. didn’t care two pence what B.J. Birtwhistle meant or didn’t mean. “So what are you doing down here specifically? I guess it’s not to say how sorry you are again.”  
B.J. looked around the room searching for the right words. “Well I just wondered how are you doing you know in general?”  
“A sight better than my uncle though not much,” P.K. said.  
“Are your uncle’s affairs taken care of, you know his will everything” B.J. asked wondering if he could start by being helpful with more practical concerns. After all, he still had some contact with his father’s solicitors, at least the ones that weren’t still demanding their fees.  
“He left everything to me,” P.K. said. “Of course what’s 50% of nothing?”  
“You don’t have any money? Disability allowance?” B.J. inquired.  
“Some of his savings, very few of mine,” P.K. said dubiously. “Most of it goes to renting this luxury accommodation and other necessities.” He waved inside the house.“The disability only covered for his care…barely.”  
“But surely the boat-“ B.J. said looking outside.  
“What boat?” P.K. jeered. “I had to sell the bloody thing to help pay for his home care. It belongs to someone else now. He only let it for the Captain’s funeral, because it was a nice gesture. Like an apology before a stab in the heart is a nice gesture. I never told him. It’d about broken his heart.”  
“Are you working?” B.J. asked. He had heard something about P.K. working in a pub.  
“I was until we moved back here and I started caring for him full-time, about six months ago” he said. “No money, no job, no family to care for, free as a bird, like I always wanted. For a large part of my life, when I was a lad and later working at the lighthouse, I thought I was stuck here. Now I’m free to go wherever I want, do whatever I want and I feel as miserable as shit! Life can’t wait to kick you in the arse with its dramatic irony.” He held up the whiskey bottle in a mocking toast.

B.J. shrugged. “Well, it isn’t much but the hotel I work in is always hiring,” he said. “They may be able to take you on as a bartender or server or something. You can work there, maybe get back on your feet.”  
P.K. looked at the other man for a long time as though B.J. were joking. “So you want to give me your cast-offs, how mighty generous of you. Thanks but nothing doing. I don’t take charity, especially one that is supposed to be a token of guilt.”  
B.J. began to feel angry. “It’s not guilt! We used to be friends once. I don’t like to see anyone fall this far down especially a friend!”  
“We’re not friends anymore,” P.K. reminded him. “We barely spoke to each other in five years, except for me to hand you the lighthouse keys for all the good you did! Now suddenly you’re making out like Father Christmas! I don’t need any help especially from someone like you and your old man who sold us out and ran off like bandits! So you can go back to your castle and your job to relieve boredom and lets you be with the nobility and tell your da that his charity didn’t work this time!”  
B.J. was furious. “The world isn’t made up of people who’d been hurt and people who hadn’t! We all suffer! My father and I-“  
“What he raided your trust fund,” P.K. asked dryly. “Don’t tell me that we’re the same because we’re not! You don’t know a thing about suffering! You lived up there-“he pointed at the house on the hill-“And I live down here! People like us don’t matter to people like you!  
“What would I be doing here if people like you don’t matter to me,” B.J. countered. “I want to help you!”  
“I don’t want or need your help,” P.K. shouted as though B.J. were a thick child. “This is my problem not yours! So, just off with you! Go!”

B.J. thought maybe this was turning into a lost cause. He turned away from P.K. and was about to pick up his bag. He lay it down as he spoke knowing that he had to set him straight about what he assumed of the Birtwhistles.  
“For the record, my father didn’t want to sell the island or the lighthouse! He had to! He was practically bankrupt! I work as a castle caretaker to keep body and soul together and to pay off my dad’s creditors. My father is an alcoholic who tried to take his own life three times in the last year alone. He can’t even be trusted to look after himself and is currently living in a private care facility, so don’t tell me that I don’t know a thing about suffering.”  
“Everyone suffers. No way out except-” P.K. drank for a long time. When he spoke, it seemed almost an afterthought. “Not sure that he did the right thing by dying as he did. It might be better to just end it quickly rather than let suffering prolong.” He winced before he took another drink. “You know that Dylan Thomas thing about raging against the dying of the light?”  
B.J. nodded. “‘Do Not Go Gentle Against that Good Night.’ He wrote it about his dying father.”  
“Well he was a bloody fool,” P.K. snapped. “That whole raging thing makes it a lot harder for those of us to pick up the pieces afterward!” He looked out the window as his voice became slower. Through the reflection he swore he could see two small creatures behind B.J. He blinked quickly and they disappeared “You ever watch someone you love slip further and further away from you and all you can do is sit there helpless?”

B.J. nodded. “Yes I have. Twice. First my Mum of cancer and now my Dad.”  
P.K. nodded. “Oh yeah, you’re a regular goody-two-shoes character from Dickens aren’t you?” He continued with his original train of thought. “He was in such pain. He pretended like he wasn’t, but it was there. I could hear it in his voice when he couldn’t remember my name. I could see it in his eyes when he lost himself in some sort of memory. I felt it whenever I held his hand and it was shaking. I knew it when I had to feed him, dress him, clean up after him, and could see the shame that I had to treat him like a newborn babe. I knew it whenever he fell down and couldn’t even make it to the toilet. A man who had faced hurricane weather and he needed my arm to pull him to his feet. He wanted me to end it, I could tell. How easy it would be, I thought, give him just a bit too much of his medicines, take a pillow, smother the life out of him and it would be done. It would have been so easy, but I had to hold out for the slight chance- in the end, I think he was grateful to go.” He tried to hide his tears but felt unable to. “He wanted to go and I couldn’t do that to him. How he must have hated me.”  
“In the end you were there,” B.J. encouraged. “You held his hand. How could he have hated that?” 

“For all the good that did,” P.K. said sarcastically. P.K. wiped his eyes and looked around the room as if seeing it for the first time. “Could you do me a favor, Birtwhistle?”  
B.J. nodded confused and somewhat wary about the change in conversation wondering what caused this sudden asking of help. “Sure of course.”  
“Could you take care of this stuff for me?” P.K. asked. “Most of its trash, just throw it out. Some of his things, the wooden ships that are still together, his telescope and compass, his uniform, send it to the pub. They want to have some sort of display in his memory.”  
B.J. nodded. “Of course, we can start on it in the morning.”  
P.K. shook his head. “I won’t be here in the morning.”  
B.J. didn’t like the way this conversation was going. “Where are you going to be?”  
“Everything will be better then,” P.K. said. “My mum used to say that ‘everything will be better in the morning.’ Of course she and da didn’t make it to the morning after the accident-that morning or any other afterward. What did she know?” While he couldn’t say that he felt sober, P.K. felt clear-headed for the first time in months. “It will be over soon at least.” He headed for the door as B.J. stood in front. He knew exactly what P.K. wanted to do. 

P.K. felt angry. “Out of my way!”  
B.J. blocked the doorway. “I’m not letting you leave! Now give me your keys.”  
P.K. laughed. “Let me? Who are you to let me do anything? “He pushed B.J. but the other man stood firm. “I said get out of my way!”  
B.J. said even more determined. “ You’re aren’t going anywhere in the condition you’re in!”  
“What are you someone’s mum, because you certainly aren’t mine!” P.K. challenged. He reached behind B.J. to pry open the door and B.J. shoved him into the room slamming the door.  
“You are not going to kill yourself!” B.J. said just as determined. He held out his hand. “Now your keys!”  
P.K. laughed like he wanted to deny it and B.J. was being silly, but he stopped cold. “What makes you think I want to do that?”  
“I told you,” B.J. reminded him. “My father attempted suicide. After three times, I’m getting to be an expert at preventing it.” He held out his hand again. “Now are you going to give me the house keys or do I have to take them from you?”  
“Do you’d really think I’d let you do that,” P.K. dared. “I already flattened you at the pub. Don’t think that I won’t do it again!”  
B.J. charged forward as P.K. moved away. B.J. once again reached for the keys, but this time P.K. was ready for him. He gave him a sharp enough shove and punch to send him towards the ground. P.K. took advantage of B.J.’s stunned expression and opened the door and ran outside. The chilly wind blew through the open door and into B.J’s soul.  
He got up and yelled, “Sprocket stop him!” 

P.K. opened the door to see Sprocket barking like mad. He pounced on his former owner as if to push him. In his drunken state, the Scotsman was furious. He lunged and kicked Sprocket off him. When the stunned dog tried again, this time P.K. kicked him again.  
. “Get away from me you damn mongrel!” He ran towards the beach.  
B.J. followed letting Sprocket off the doorpost. “I’m sorry boy,” he said examining the dog as the wind picked up around him and the rain began to pelt down. He could see that there wasn’t any permanent damage that Sprocket was more of upset that his former owner would strike him like that than physically hurt. To no one’s surprise, Red and Gobo appeared at their human friend’s side.  
“Need our help?” Gobo asked.  
“If you can,” B.J. said. He looked in the direction where P.K. was heading. “He’s headed for the Ocean, we have to stop him!” B.J. ran inside quickly and pulled out two life preservers from the closet. He looked closely to see that one was a child-size one. Many of the sea folk kept a variety of life preservers in various sizes in case, they needed them for life saving. There probably was another adult one somewhere in P.K.’s closet. B.J. glowered knowing that he didn’t have time to correct the mistake and look for another. He’d have to get a boat instead of swimming out on his own. “Come on!” He let Sprocket loose and human, dog, and Fraggles ran after the potential suicide.


	3. Carry Me Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Fraggles reveal themselves in front of P.K., but will it amount to anything?

Sharing the Magic  
A Fraggle Rock UK fanfic  
By Auburn Red

Chapter Three: Carry Me Away 

The wind and rain picked up by the time, P.K. walked into the waves. He remembered even when he was young, his uncle would tell him that drowning was a quick death. “None of that flailing about you see in the films,” he said. “It’s like sleeping. You never come up. Your body doesn’t move because it doesn’t want to.” How nice it must be, P.K. thought as he ended up waist deep in the rapid waves and purposely leaned face forward. He ignored the barking and man calling his name from the shore as he lowered himself into the water and let his arms push him towards the horizon. 

From the shore, B.J. called his former friend as Sprocket barked. B.J. shone his flashlight on the water. “Damn, I don’t see him!” he cursed.  
Red raced ahead of the three males, “I think that’s him,” she pointed at the shape over the waves.  
“That’s amazing Red,” B.J. complimented.  
“Water’s my life, remember?” Red reminded the human.  
“I need to get a boat,” he headed for the dockyard. “There’s one or two rowboats out there.”  
“Well I’m coming with you,” Gobo said. Sprocket barked in agreement.  
B.J. at this point was too distracted to argue. “Alright come on,” he said. “Coming Red?”  
“No way,” Red said already heading for the water. “Someone’s in the Big Pond and needs rescuing. This is a job for Red Fraggle!” She ran for the docks to do one of her famous swan dives before B.J. held on to her.  
“Red, this is a lot larger and more dangerous than your Fraggle Pond,” he warned her with his Naval and lighthouse keeper training intact. He put the child’s life preserver-thankful that there was a use for it after all-on the Fraggle and handed her the adult sized one. “When you get there, put this on him, the way I just put it on you. Just come near him and hold his head out of the water. You won’t be able to hold onto him for very long. Do not try to swim to the shore. It will be much too difficult for you. We are coming for you both. Just hold onto him’s all you need to do.”  
“I rescued Jr. Gorg from drowning how hard can this Silly Creature be,” she asked. When the human looked stunned. “Long story, it was a dare.”  
“Whatever,” B.J. said. “Just do what I say alright?” Red nodded and without another word, she dove off the dock into the water. B.J. motioned the dog and Fraggle forward to a nearby rowboat. He handed the flashlight to Gobo. “Gobo, hold onto this and tell me what you see.” They then jumped inside the boat.  
“Can I borrow this please?” B.J. asked as he untied the boat before the man answered. “Thanks, I’ll give it right back.” He yelled as he rowed the boat fast towards the horizon and Gobo focused the light forward. 

P.K. felt the numbness overwhelm him as he welcomed the death that surrounded him. His arms and legs went limp as sweet exhaustion came over him. He didn’t react until he felt a hand touch him. He supposed it was some sort of angel or some other being to welcome him to the Other Side. He accepted it, until he felt the creature’s other hand roughly pull his face from the water and push something around his head and neck. He couldn’t manage more than an “Ugh,” as he thought he heard a snap and a female voice say something that sounded like a strange curse. He realized he was being rescued. He purposely made his body dead weight not wanting or deserving another chance at life.  
“Start moving, you stupid Silly Creature” the female voice argued. Despite his fatigued mind, P.K. couldn’t resist an amused thought that for an angel this being was rather rude. Sort of the angel that he would expect to get, a mouthy little thing. He couldn’t figure out why on Earth it was wearing red pigtails, but somehow that enhanced this strange angel’s saucy attitude. It continued to curse at him saying that if the creature had its way, he would be punched after what he did to its friend. He lowered his face once more into the water as the creature once again held up his head. “Oh no you’re not,” it warned. “Not on my watch!” 

B.J. rowed as Gobo stood on the helm of the boat peering through the light towards his friend or the Silly Creature. The wind began to pick up and the waves got larger making visibility harder. B.J. called “Red!!” but the only sound could be heard was the wind picking up. “We’ll get her, Gobo don’t worry. Just keep looking.” He reassured his Fraggle friend. Gobo felt a lump in his throat worrying that Red was out there in that water and it was his fault. He should never have dared her to come with him on this journey into Outer Space. What if something happened to her and it was his fault? What if he never had fun playing hidey-ho inside the caves or balancing cucumbers on their noses again? What if she never challenged him to a race or swimming competion again?  
What if he never felt her energy or heard her grand schemes? What if she never made fun of his Uncle Traveling Matt’s stories or called him an idiot again? Well he thought maybe there was one slight silver lining in this. He just couldn’t lose one of his closest friends and one who he admitted that he felt odd feelings that made him feel hot, uncomfortable whenever he saw her- Gobo continued to call “Reddd!”” over the wind. Sprocket also continued to perk his ears up listening over the storm. 

Over the din of the storm, he could hear a sharp voice yell “Gobo!” Sprocket wagged his tail and barked excitedly. Gobo smiled and pointed the flashlight at what appeared to be a stationary lump and what appeared to be a hand waving over it. “B.J. they’re over there!” Gobo pointed in their direction. B.J. used his strength to shift the boat over to the direction where Gobo aimed the light.  
B.J. aimed the boat closer to the Fraggle and human and stopped. He handed the oars to Gobo, “Hold onto these,” he said. Gobo obeyed as B.J. moved forward. “Good job, Red,” he said. “Now move him forward. That’s a girl.” He reached out of the boat and leaned P.K. onto the boat. The red-haired man was unconscious as he lay on the boat. B.J. then picked up Red and lay her on the boat. “You’re a hero, Lassie!” B.J. complimented her as she sat next to Gobo.  
“Thanks,” Red said surprisingly bashful. “I’m just glad I finally swam across the Big Pond you’re always talking about.”  
“That you did, Red,” B.J. said as he rowed to shore.  
“Great job, Red,” Gobo told her. “You did good.” He was proud of his friend as he gave her a kiss on the cheek. The two blushed looking at each other, offering embarrassed giggles at the public display of emotion.  
When B.J. anchored the boat, he pushed P.K. onto the shore. He lay him down and opened P..K.’s mouth, tilted his chin, and put his hands under P.K’s sternum. He breathed inside and listened for his heart. He then pushed on his chest and continued to listen. He breathed, listened and pushed, breathed, listened, and pushed. Finally he could hear a faint heartbeat as P.K. gasped and coughed up water. The Scotsman opened his eyes to see B.J. looking down at him relieved. “What you go and do that for?” P.K. asked bitterly and wearily.

P.K. woke up feeling like he had been hit by at least 30 lorries. His head burned as he felt the hangover to end all hangovers. He rubbed the bridge of his nose trying to focus on everything that happened the night before. He remembered being led into his shack, but the rest was kind of a blur. Actually, a lot had been a blur even before then. Why had he been outside in the first place? He looked down. He didn’t even remember being asleep in his bed or changing into his pajamas. When did that happen? Why did he think that he smelled coffee?  
Other things confused P.K.. He remembered being wet and then being held by a small red-haired angel. He also swore he heard a beautiful female voice singing to him during the night and thought he saw a small aqua colored creature picking up some of the clothing in his room, among others. Didn’t he hear the patter of feet? He winced, it finally happened. The D.T.’s were starting to get to him. He had been seeing and hearing things that was all. A recognizable thirst filled his throat. Well maybe if he got out of bed and tossed back a few, his thoughts could finally gather together or at the very least he would be too drunk to care whether they did or not. 

He showered quickly, then staggered into the sitting room and got the shock of his life. The mess that had been left that he never bothered to take care of after his uncle died was gone! “I’ve been robbed,” he gasped out loud. The clothes had been removed from the floor. All of the papers that had been carelessly strewn about were missing. There were no broken bottles lying about. He looked at the settee, shyly opening the guitar case and fingering the instrument inside. It had been neatly returned. “What’s going on here?” he asked. If these were thieves, they must have been the tidiest ones in history. The smell of coffee continued to emerge from the kitchen area and he could hear a man’s voice talking and laughing. Alright so they were tidy thieves with a sense of humor who needed their morning coffee, it made perfect sense.

P.K. crept forward ready to fight anyone who attacked but wanting to take the advantage of surprise. He opened the folding door to see B.J. Birtwhistle standing by the stove and pouring coffee from a kettle into a mug. Sprocket was seated on the floor looking closely at his master, no doubt waiting for him to drop some food on the floor.  
The brown-haired man had his back turned but was talking aloud. He laughed at something, “No he’s not hung over anything,” he said aloud to thin air apparently. “He’s just hung over. It just means that he is probably sick from drinking so much alcohol last night, like someone who ate too much and has an upset stomach.” He stopped as if the thin air had asked a question and B.J. answered. “Yeah like after one too many Doozer constructions.” B.J. turned around to see P.K. looking at him. 

“Make yourself at home,” P.K. said dryly. “You and your-“He looked around “-invisible friend who obviously doesn’t know what a hangover is.” He knelt down to see Sprocket. “How you been Sprocket?” But the dog backed away from his former master and growled. “What was that about?” P.K. inquired.  
“Well you did kick him last night,” B.J. said. “I think he’s still angry with you about that.”  
P.K. shook his head feeling rattled. “I did? What happened last night?”  
B.J. stammered fishing for an excuse to change the subject.” I made some coffee. Would you care for some? It’s a good cure for a hangover. I wasn’t sure what you wanted to eat, maybe not quite ready for solid food, so I didn’t make anything else. Would you like eggs or bakky?”  
P.K. felt nauseaus at the thought of that much food. “Coffee sounds good.”  
It took a minute. “Wait I have coffee?” He had neglected to do any marketing during the funeral arrangements. 

B.J. laid the mug down. “Well you didn’t have very much food in your pantry or your refrigerator so I did your shopping for you.” Stunned, P.K. ran to the refrigerator to see milk, eggs, and other items. He could see bread inside the pantry and other food in a now neatly scrubbed and shined kitchen.  
“I don’t recall asking you to do that,” P.K. glowered at this other man’s interference.  
“Well I figured you couldn’t live off of just whiskey forever,” B.J. remarked.  
“Where are my bottles?” P.K. asked looking around the now mostly dry kitchen.  
“I didn’t get rid of all of them,” B.J. said. “I left a few behind. It’s not my business to make you quit entirely,” He pointed to the bottles, less than five on the counter. “But I put the empty broken ones in the rubbish and discarded the half-empty ones.”  
“That meant that they were half-full!” P.K. said feeling his anger simmer. He drank the coffee and glanced towards the sitting room. “I suppose you took it upon yourself to clean as well.”  
“Well myself and some mates of mine,” B.J. said. “We laundered your clothing and put them in the hamper, scrubbed your floor-that took forever, and even cleaned your windows.”  
P.K. opened the hamper door. He saw that the other man was right. His clothes lay neatly inside. P.K. looked around the room seeing it for the first time. He held up a file folder marked “Bills” and glanced at some other file folders as B.J. continued to talk. “I wasn’t sure what all paperwork you needed so while I was out I bought some file folders and arranged them.” Sure enough there were other files marked “Captain’s logs,” “Receipts,” “Song Lyrics,” “Captain’s Medical Notes,” and “Unsure” among others.  
P.K. winced as he threw out the ones that marked the Captain’s medical notes, dosages, and personal care. “I won’t be needing these anymore, now will I?” he said. P.K. looked around confused and more annoyed as he saw several things missing. “Where are my uncle’s things, his clothes, his tools? What did you do with them?” He asked angrily.  
B.J. held up a hand prepared for this line of questioning. “Don’t worry, I also got some cardboard boxes and put your uncle’s tools and artifacts inside them. I lay his clothes inside the closet. I figured that you would know best what needed to be done with them.” He opened the closet and P.K. saw boxes marked “Wooden Ships,” “Ships in Bottles,” “Maps,” “Nautical Tools,” etc. The Captain’s clothes hung neat and pressed on wire hangars inside the closet. 

P.K. was flummoxed. This went beyond interfering. “Do you always make a habit of cleaning the homes of people who sock you?”  
B.J. sighed.” I couldn’t leave you alone in all of that squalor especially after how you were last night.”  
“Alright,” P.K. threw his hands up. “What did happen last night?” He seemed to remember drinking and arguing with B.J. a great deal. Some of the words were coming back. He also remembered running outside in the rain.  
“You were pretty pissed,” B.J. said. “You weren’t in your right mind.”  
P.K. shivered. He remembered feeling wet and cold. “I went outside and I-“the memory began to return as the cold air from the previous evening chilled him “-made for the Ocean for a swim. No, it was too storm, too cold for that. I would have drowned.” He buried his head in his hands. “I wanted to drown.”  
“As I said you were pretty pissed,” B.J. said slowly. The two men sat in silence as P.K. drank his coffee. 

“So you pulled me out of the ocean, took me back, and cleaned up after me,” P.K. asked.  
“That about sums it up,” B.J. answered.  
“You’re a born caretaker you know that,” P.K. said dryly. “You’re the type who always puts everyone else’s needs before your own.”  
B.J. shrugged. “I suppose.”  
“Your dad get this much attention from you? You go visit him at that facility you mentioned?” P.K. asked remembering bits of the conversation the previous evening.  
“At least once a week on Visitor’s Day,” B.J. answered. “-And when-they have to call me. Why?”  
“And you do as much for him as you did for me?” P.K. inquired. B.J.’s long face gave him the answer. “Just as I thought,” P.K. said. “You also work at the castle tending to the guest’s needs. You look after your dad and you just took it upon yourself to take care of someone you have barely spoken to in as many years.You are the type who always has to look after everyone else and fix their problems. You burn yourself out helping them, so you don’t have to look at how empty and miserable your own life is.”  
B.J.’s face darkened. “That’s a lot of gratitude for someone who looked after you last night.” He reached for a tin can on the pantry. “I bought you some clam chowder soup. It’s not that hard to cook it. Just follow the directions on the label.” He put on his gray windbreaker over his white sweater and black trousers. “I have to get back to work. I stayed away too long, anyway.” He was about to head for the door when P.K. called him back in.  
P.K. ran his hand through his curls. “I’m sorry, Birtwhistle. I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t recognized it in myself. It’s easier sometimes to try to fix another person’s life so you don’t have to think about your own.” He sighed. “I am grateful. Thank you, not many would have done what you did for me. You’re a good man to do it.” He took out his hand. After an uncomfortable moment, B.J. returned the handshake.  
“First nice thing you’ve said to me,” B.J. replied. 

“Don’t get used to it,” P.K. answered. He should still be angry with B.J. over what had happened to his uncle. Now he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t exactly ready to replace his anger with gratitude or friendliness, but B.J. Birtwhistle certainly wasn’t the spoiled rich self-centered entitled brat that P.K. believed him to be. He hesitated. “I probably need to quit drinking anyway. I’m finally hallucinating.”  
“Really like what?”B.J. asked.  
“Well it’s pretty clear that it’s just a delusion,” P.K. said. “Do you believe in creatures or things that just appear out of nowhere that people don’t think are real?”  
“Absolutely,” B.J. answered. “Especially in recent years.” 

“Well last night I think I was rescued by something like that,” P.K. laughed. “It was well I suppose it was an angel, but she certainly didn’t act or look like any angel I had ever seen. She was fairly rude and kept arguing with me. She also had yellow skin and red hair in braids. I know I think I’m losing it, but during the night I kept seeing others that looked like her, a pink female one that had a lovely voice, a blue one that kept taking things like my clothes, a green one that I thought had given me some water, another female only she was lavender colored and put something cold on my forehead, and an orange one that was reading something to me. I know it’s the D.T.’s, it has to be that or-“He shook his head. “My uncle used to talk about these strange creatures in the rocks, you know the Fraggles-island is supposedly named for ‘em. Towards the end, he was starting to hallucinate them, I think. He would talk to them or about them. Maybe it’s starting to get to me and I’m starting to see them too.”  
B.J. grinned. “So you don’t believe that they exist.” He waved his hand forward at something under the table.  
“I don’t know what I believe in anymore,” P.K. sighed. “I used to think he was going mad but at the same time if it helped him, what harm was it? He could jabber all the day to his invisible friend, ‘Matt’ all he wanted as long as he wasn’t in despair. I don’t know maybe it would be nice to talk to someone like that. Maybe, maybe I’ve wanted to all along.”

B.J. smiled a warm smile. “Well today is your lucky day. How would you like to talk to six someones like that?” He pointed downward as P.K. felt something furry touch his hand.  
The young Scotsman looked gobsmacked at the creatures smiling at him, practically falling off his chair.“You see them too right?” P.K. asked not wanting to believe his eyes.  
It was on the tip of B.J’s tongue to say something like “see what?” to give P.K. a hard time, but he just laughed at the other man’s confusion. “As plain as I see you,” he said. “I’d like to introduce you to my friends, the Fraggles.”  
“Hi, you’re P.K. right?” the orange one asked with a male voice. P.K. nodded unsure if he even knew his name right now. “I’m Gobo Fraggle.”  
“It knows my name and its talking to me,” P.K. whispered. “What am I supposed to do now?”  
“Talk back to him,” B.J. invited. “Try ‘Hello’ for a start?”

P.K. hesitated as he held out his hand afraid of the Fraggles touching it, afraid of what his eyes were telling him. “Umm hello, Gobo is it?”  
Gobo put his hand on P.K’.s. “It’s nice to meet another Silly Creature.”  
P.K. was flummoxed not so sure that he wanted to talk to such a rude thing. “Silly Creature?”  
B.J. laughed. “It’s what they call us humans. It’s not an insult, they like silliness.”  
“Well I can’t deny its apt,” P.K. reasoned. 

“Well you met, Gobo,” B.J. said and he pointed at the others. “This is Mokey,” he said pointing to the pink Fraggle.  
“Thank you for saying I have a beautiful voice,” Mokey said shyly and was she blushing-P.K. couldn’t tell but her pink cheeks did seem to get closer to red just then.  
“You mean that was you singing to me last night,” P.K. asked. Mokey nodded as he continued.“Well I should thank you. It was very soothing, like a lullaby.”  
“We like music, we always know that it’s a gift that could heal or make a person happy,” Mokey said. “Don’t you? You have a guitar.” She pointed to the guitar that still lay on the settee in its case. “Do you sing too?”  
P.K. shook his head. “Not anymore.” He tried to smile. “Anyway my voice surely wouldn’t be anything as lovely as yours.” Once again the pink Fraggle gave what P.K. could only assume was a blush. 

The aqua colored Fraggle cleared his throat. He sounded kind of annoyed and was that jealousy maybe, P.K. wryly thought. He didn’t know why. After all it wasn’t like he and Mokey were even the same species.  
“This is Boober,” B.J. said.  
“You have given me hours of an exciting challenge washing your clothing especially your socks,” Boober said. “It took my greatest effort to remove the grime but at last I can call myself an artist and I have you to thank!”  
P.K. looked confused at B.J. and the other Fraggles. B.J. held up his hands in a don’t-bother gesture. Instead he pointed to the green and lavender Fraggles standing next to each other holding hands. “This here is Wembley and his friend, Lou.” The way that B.J. drawled “friend,” P.K. had a feeling that the two Fraggles were more than just friends.  
“We hope you liked the sweet water,” Wembley said. “Its supposed to help you feel better.”  
“And the moss pack,” Lou said. “Remember just put some on your head whenever it aches. It should cure any injury.”  
P.K. was confused. “Well its alright, thank you. I do feel better actually.” 

“Hey what about me,” Red commanded. “He wouldn’t even be able to put the moss pack on his head or drink the sweet water if I hadn’t saved him in the first place.”  
“And this is Red,” B.J. replied. “Also known as ‘Your Rude Angel.’”  
“And you’re not exactly a nice guy yourself pal,” Red glowered to P.K.  
“So that was you last night,” P.K. realized. “I suppose I owe you my thanks and my life.” He shook her tiny hand. “Though I don’t know why you made the effort.”  
“I’d do anything to help my friends and B.J. is one of mine,” Red replied as if the answer was so obvious. “You, not really.” 

P.K. looked from one to the other. “So I take it that my uncle’s friend, ‘Matt’ was one of yours?” He asked.  
“Actually he’s probably my Uncle Traveling Matt,” Gobo explained. “He’s an explorer and used to go to Outer Space and sent me postcards of his travels.”  
“Outer Space?” P.K. asked quizzically, “He’s an astronaut then?”  
B.J. shook his head and waved his hands around the house, the island, everything. “All of this is Outer Space to them, the human world.”  
P.K. shrugged. “Well I’m disappointed. I always figured Outer Space would be more like something out of Star Wars.” He said dryly. “I’m kidding,” he said. “So how is it I am only seeing you now and well last night when I couldn’t see you or Matt before?” 

The Fraggles looked at each other confused. “We don’t know,” Mokey said. “Madame Trash Heap-“  
“-Madame Trash Heap?” P.K. asked. This was getting too weird for him.  
“Their oracle,” B.J. answered. “Never met her, but I understand  
she’s very helpful even if a little-“ He moved his finger around his ear subtly so the Fraggles wouldn’t catch the gesture “-odd.”  
Mokey continued. “-Well she told us that sometimes Silly Creatures don’t see us because they don’t want to see us. Gobo’s uncle met many.”  
Gobo nodded. “But from what he told me, mostly they were Fraggle sized ones or  
Silly Creatures who helped him. Sometimes he met some mean ones like the Mouth Burners.” He quickly explained the story that his uncle told him about the time that he entered a cave and doused the flames inside the mouth burners. One angry Mouth Burner chased him outside rather than thanking him.

Upon P.K.’s confused stare, B.J. translated. “Smokers in a pub. Matt drenched him in water and put out his cigarette.” P.K. dryly wondered if he would need a Fraggle-English dictionary to translate what these things were talking about.  
“Sounds like the right idea.”P.K. impishly replied. After all he wouldn’t relish the thought of someone dunking water on him in public and putting out his cigarette even if it was a Fraggle who didn’t understand it.  
Gobo put his hand to his chin in deep thought. “But none of these Silly Creatures talked to Uncle Matt very long.We don’t have many Silly Creature friends.”  
“How many of us Silly Creatures would you consider friends?” P.K. asked.  
“Well there’s B.J. and Sprocket,” Gobo pointed at the human and dog. “You now. The Captain I suppose counted, but he didn’t talk to any of us a whole lot mostly Uncle Traveling Matt. Oh and Doc and his Sprocket.”  
“Doc,” P.K. asked. “Doc Crystal? American gent, older,wears specs and looks like Father Christmas’ geekier brother?”  
B.J. nodded. “Yeah you know him?”  
“Yeah,” P.K. said. “I met him about a year ago in the pub I used to work. I helped him face some roughians and well he-“  
“-Gave you some money with a note reminding you that you cannot leave the magic,” B.J. finished. “I met him too probably around the same time. We’ve been writing to each other in fact.”  
“Yeah I’ve wrote to him once or twice afterward,” P.K. answered. He ran out of energy to keep up with the correspondence when his uncle’s health deteriorated but he remembered Doc’s final letters to him were filled with emotional support for his family’s situation. “I suppose that’s what he was talking about.” He motioned to the Fraggles. “About not leaving the magic. So why all of a sudden are you coming to me now?” 

The Fraggle exchanged silent agreement as Gobo stepped forward. “Some bad things have been happening at the Rock and Madame Trash Heap told us that you two have to be brought together to save the Rock. Its our home.”  
P.K. was flabbergasted. This was going too fast for him. “So in bringing us together it would save your home, why? What difference does it make?”  
“It makes a lot of difference to you doesn’t it?” Red said. “You would have drowned if we hadn’t been there!”  
“Aye, that I would have,” P.K. reluctantly agreed.  
“We were told that saving you would save us,” Gobo added.  
“Did it?” P.K. asked. “Did it change anything?”  
The Fraggles shook their heads. “We don’t know yet,” Lou remarked. “But last we were over there it still looked the same.”  
“Then why did you bother?” P.K. sharply retorted. “Nothing changes.”  
“Everything changes even when you don’t see it,” Mokey said. “Sometimes it takes a long time but it happens.”  
P.K. snorted. “I think you have been living in the Rock too long, Lassie.” He said. “Even if I could help save your world, I wouldn’t. I have enough problems of my own, besides I wouldn’t know how. We Silly Creatures can’t even save our own world.” He nodded at B.J. as if wanting him to concur. The other Silly Creature nodded and shrugged as if he couldn’t deny it either.  
Wembley looked up at the Scotsman. “You know sometimes when I have trouble trying to decide how to begin something big, I listen to the little voice in my head.”  
Gobo nodded. “Yeah its just like the song that Uncle Traveling Matt used to sing to me when I was younger: 

“Every day the world begins again  
Sunny skies or rain  
Come and follow me  
Every sunrise shows me more and more  
So much to explore  
Come and follow me”

P.K.’s eyes popped open. “You know that song?”  
Gobo nodded. “Yeah its an old Fraggle song. Who doesn’t?”  
P.K. smiled. “I used to hear it in my head when I was a lad. I never knew where it came from.”  
Gobo’s voice brightened feeling a kinship with the ginger-haired human. “Do you know the rest?”  
P.K. absently removed the guitar from the case and strummed the chords that began to come to him as he and Gobo sang together: 

“ Every morning  
Every day  
Every evening  
Calling me away-“

As P.K. played, their friends smiled at the Fraggle-human duet. P.K. felt lighter and more hopeful picturing the peaceful images. For the first time since his uncle died, P.K. was actually having a good time. Suddenly, the reality of his life caved in on him. The grief of his uncle’s death, the uselessness that he felt in the village from the other residents and himself, and now the Fraggles explaining the problems in their environment, filled him at once. While strumming, P.K. felt his hands shake and the thirst return for a drink. His voice cracked as he began the second chorus.  
P.K. stopped playing his guitar and set it down. The Fraggles, B.J., and Sprocket looked confused. The Scotsman shut the guitar back in its case with a decided snap. There was silence for a long time before he spoke. “ I’m sorry, Gobo, I just can’t. As I said, I’m not a musician anymore.”

P.K. locked the door to the shack for the last time. He and B.J. finally worked to remove all of the items, donated his uncle’s things to the pub, trashed what was unnecessary and kept the very few things that were around. Now the shack was barren waiting for another renter. P.K. knelt down and hugged Sprocket. “I’ll miss you boyeen,” he said. “I’m sorry for hurting you.” The dog barked and licked his face to let his former master know that all was forgiven. “You take care of B.J. right?” He asked as he kissed the top of the dog’s head. Sprocket nodded and barked in affirmation.  
P.K. stood and faced B.J. standing by the doorway. “So what are you going to do now?” B.J. asked.  
P.K. shrugged. “I don’t know become an itenerant worker handyman, I suppose.”  
“Maybe an iternerant musician,” B.J. suggested motioning to the guitar case.  
P.K. shook his head. “No, I’m hocking this thing the first chance that I get. Where are you going?”  
“Back to work,” B.J. replied. “First I have to look in on my dad while I still have the strength.” P.K. laughed bitterly knowing full well that feeling of constant anxiety mixed with frustration about a sick family member. B.J. continued. “I still can’t help but feel you’re making a big mistake. You could work in the castle like I suggested.”  
B.J. could smell the whiskey on the other man’s breath and recalled that P.K. drank two of the whiskey bottles B.J. left inside the shack. He couldn’t locate the other three but had a feeling that they were tucked away inside P.K’s rucksack.  
“It’s my mistake to make,” P.K. answered determined. “I just can’t see myself working in a place like that. I’d probably end up telling some Lord and Lady Muckety-Muck or some rich American from Texas what I thought of them and end up sacked.” The two laughed while B.J. pictured the image sometimes wishing he could do the same. 

B.J. became serious. “Listen don’t let the hatred you have for me be a barrier in being friends with them. They are really great friends and I have learned a lot. I see the world better because of them. You probably could too.”  
P.K. looked down at his boots. “I don’t hate you, Birtwhistle but-“ He hesitated. “Most of my emotions had been spent by two things: constant worry about caring for my uncle and anger and hatred at everyone else. I hated your dad for selling the island, hated you for I don’t know being his son I suppose, hated the new people for coming and buying it without respect, hated the villagers who left, sometimes even hated my uncle for giving up. Mostly, mostly I hated myself, still do. I welcomed change when I first heard. This place could be modernized. I played with computers and synthesizers like a kid with toys at Christmas. It was progress, exciting! I thought if the island could join the rest of the world, then so could I. It would be my chance to explore new avenues and get up and out.” He sighed heavily. “I just never realized the cost.”  
B.J. put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “Sometimes we don’t always until later.” 

“Mostly I hate myself because I can’t fight it. I fought until I realized that I can’t fight anything and win. All I can do is let it happen. I couldn’t make my uncle get better so I helped him when he got worse. I can’t bring this island to what it once was, so all I can do is leave.” He looked towards the horizon in silence ready to his journey. “I don’t have any fight left in me.”  
“Are you still angry?” B.J. asked.  
“I don’t know,” P.K. answered truthfully. “I’m certainly not with you any longer. I’m not angry but I don’t feel anything any more. I just can’t seem to replace it with any other feeling, certainly nothing that they would welcome. I’m not ready for any of this.”  
“So you don’t want to be their friend?” B.J. asked.  
P.K. shook his head. “I must admit it is startling and exciting, but it’s too much too soon. I need to sort some things out. Don’t worry I’ll tell no one about them, but I’m not a fit person to be their friend. Doc, you, and Sprocket are. You’re good and I’m not. They’ll just have to be satisfied with that.” He put his rucksack on his back, picked up his guitar case, and shook B.J’s hand. “I hope to see you around, Birtwhistle.”  
“You know where I’ll be,” B.J. answered as he gave him a business card with the castle/hotel’s address on it. “You could come there anytime.”  
“Aye, I’d like that,” P.K. answered as he left the shack.  
B.J. waited a bit but then picked up Sprocket’s leash, ready for the two to leave themselves. The Fraggles had already returned to the Rock, so there wasn’t much more for B.J. to do than get an early start.  
Sprocket whimpered at his owner’s sad expression and cuddled up to his legs to provide comfort. B.J. smiled sadly and then petted the dog on the head. “Why do I have a feeling that I failed our friends, Sprockey?” 

The Fraggles ran through the caves hoping that what they did helped. “After all remember during the Radish Famine,” Mokey suggested. “All we had to do was to get a Fraggle, a Doozer, and a Gorg in the same area together. Maybe the fact that P.K. saw us and that he and B.J. were in the same room together would be enough.”  
The Fraggles raced forward. Maybe Mokey had a point. They entered the Great Hall and had the great shock of their lives. The pond was completely black with oil dripping all over. The plants that hung on the caves were drooping and fading on the ground below. The other Fraggles surrounding the Hall clung to each other in terror. The Lead Fraggle (formerly the World’s Oldest Fraggles’ Aide) ran over to the Six Fraggle friends. “What the devil is going on here?” he asked. “I want answers!” He absently bopped Wembley over the head with his walking stick like his former employer used to do to him.  
“We don’t know,” Gobo said truthfully. “We’re going to find out.” Their only answer was that what they did in Outer Space wasn’t enough.

The friends appeared before the Trash Heap. Once larger than most Fraggles, she was now shrinking to the point where she was less-than Fraggle sized. Philo and Gunge were running around filling her with as much garbage as they could collect.  
“Here you are Marjorie,” Philo said with tears in his eyes. “My collection of shoelaces.”  
“And Marjorie these are some broken bottles I found,” Gunge begged. “They don’t smell good but they might help.”  
“Every little bit helps, Gungie,” Marjorie said. She turned to the Fraggles listening to the adventure. “So one Silly Creature kept the other from drowning and he saw you.”  
They nodded. “We thought it would help Madame Heap, but it didn’t,” Gobo said.  
“Nothing changed like the Silly Creature said,” Boober said doubtfully.  
“Because it isn’t finished,” Marjorie said. “You only stopped the Silly Creature from drowning. You did not save him nor the other. They are still lost. The circle has only been opened. It has to-be—unbroken.” Marjorie said the last word fading as she weakened from the lack of compost.  
“The Trash Heap has spoken,” Philo said without his usual swagger or “nyahh.”  
Gunge couldn’t say anything, he was so tearful. He looked up at the Fraggles’ as the  
tears rolled out of his eyes. “You have to do something,” he begged.  
Gobo turned towards Outer Space. “Come on we have work to do,” he said.


	4. Everything Seems to Sing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which B.J. has further familial difficulties and at his lowest point P.K. receives help from a very musical source.

Sharing the Magic  
A Fraggle Rock U.K. fanfic  
By Auburn Red  
Author’s Note: Let Me Be Your Song is by Dennis Lee and Phil Balsam   
Chapter Four: Everything Seems To Sing

B.J. followed the nurse inside the immaculate sterilized hallway. She walked so fast that B.J. struggled to keep up with her. In fact they were practically breaking into a run as she spoke. “We tried to call you several times but you weren’t available,” she was too polite to make any judgements but B.J. could just hear the disappointment in her voice. She faced B.J. with a kind but authoritarian demeanor. Her name tag read “Pamela.”   
“I was at a funeral for a friend,” B.J. answered. His heart skipped as he realized that there would only be one reason why the care facility staff would be that frantic to reach him. He had returned to the castle to several calls from the facility about his father. He left right away. Neither the Fraggles nor Sprocket were with him. The Fraggles had returned to the Rock and B.J. left Sprocket back at the castle when they returned, so this sudden news made B.J. feel more alone than ever. “When?”   
Pamela stopped. “Yesterday morning.” Upon B.J.’s stricken pallid expression, she shook her head. “Oh no, your father’s not dead thank God.” B.J. sighed with relief. “But he well he had another-accident.”   
The two of them stopped in front of a hospital room. Through the window, B.J. could see his father, Brian Birtwhistle Sr., seated on a bed in his private room.   
His head was bent over some papers that he was frantically scribbling. The older man once hearty and robust was now puffy and flaccid from hospitalization. B.J. could see the tell-tale bandages around his father’s wrists. B.J. winced. “How did it happen?”   
Pamela shook her head disapprovingly. “One of our orderlies-and don’t you worry a thing about it, he’s been discharged-slipped him a bottle of whiskey. He drank it down to the drop and it shattered to the ground. We cleaned it up but he must have kept some of the pieces in his hand. Later, well he had a few nasty cuts.”   
B.J. inwardly grimaced at the nurse’s words. It was never a “suicide attempt” with them. It was always an “accident.” They never intentionally tried to “slit their wrists” or “fell to their death,” it was “a nasty cut” or “they slipped.” Maybe it was their way of protecting their hospital from lawsuits. Maybe it was denial that despite all of their therapy and medicine, someone could still be despondent and look at death as the only way out. “May I see him?” B.J. asked hoarse.   
Pamela looked around in concern. “Well technically, we can’t admit visitors at this time. It upsets the patients so soon after-“  
B.J. glared at her doing his best impression of his father at his haughtiest most business-like. The way he was before all of this.“I pay for his care and find that he is like this. The least you could do is let me see him!” 

B.J. entered the room keeping his eyes on his father. He entered so quietly that the old man did not look up from his writing. B.J. opened his mouth trying to find the words, but they wouldn’t come. He tried again. “Dad?”   
Brian Birtwhistle Sr. looked up at his son, the smile on his face was bright and welcoming. “Ahh B.J. my boy,” he said and motioned him forward. “Come here, lad!” B.J. walked towards his father’s bed, pulled up a nearby chair, and sat next to him. His father spoke. “You should be a part of this. Its your legacy my boy, your future!” He pointed at the paper. B.J. looked at the words. In one column lay the names of his father’s properties and on the other column were nothing but zeros and lines drawn over the zeros. Birtwhistle held up a finger. “You see I’m trying to make these numbers fit,” he said as he scribbled several lines onto the paper. “They think that its not mine anymore, but I’ll make them fit.”  
B.J. held his father’s hand and traced down to the wrist that was expertly bandaged. “Dad what happened to you?”   
Birtwhistle looked down at the wrists as if seeing them for the first time. He seemed lost in thought for a minute as if he couldn’t remember. “Oh I just hurt myself,” he said matter-of-factly. “That’s all. I decided to take it to the doctor because I didn’t want your mother to find out. You know how she fusses so. Best not tell her. Best to keep it a secret between us men, eh?”  
“Mum?” B.J. asked confused.   
“Of course your mother,” Birtwhistle said. He looked confused. “Does she seem thinner to you and more tired lately? I hope she’s not ill. No matter she’s as lovely as a girl.” B.J. put his hands to his mouth rather than give into emotion. The elder Birtwhistle’s voice caught as if another thought had entered, but he shook his head and returned to his writing and indicating the wrists. “But we don’t want to worry her about this, so mum’s the word eh?”  
B.J. leaned closer to his father and put his hands gently around his shoulders. “Dad do you know where you are?”   
Birtwhistle laughed. “Well of course I do. Really son how are you ever going to inherit anything if you ask such daft questions? I am in my study in our home that I purchased and had built myself on Fraggle Rock Island! Where else would I be?” He looked around the room confused. “Where else am I?”   
The paper dropped from his lap as Birtwhistle looked at the room in a panic. “B.J., where am I?” His eyes fell on Pamela who pushed a button on the wall. “Who is this woman? What is she doing here in my house?” He charged towards the nurse. “What are you doing here, you brazen hussy?”   
B.J. held onto his father by the shoulders trying to lower him down. “Dad, stop this! She’s not going to hurt you!” As he spoke, three male orderlies entered the room behind Pamela and approached the irate patient.  
“Get out all of you!” Birtwhistle shouted. “You are disturbing my wife! She is a sick woman trying to rest! You heard me, I said get out!” Two of the orderlies grabbed Birtwhistle by the arms and another by the legs. “B.J., get rid of them!” He commanded his son.  
B.J. held his father by the shoulders as Pamela prepared the sedative. “Now Dad, they’re trying to help you,” he said. “Let them help you!” Pamela pushed the needle in the businessman’s arm as he continued to struggle and order them to get out. One by one the orderlies released their hold on the patient. B.J. continued to hold onto his father wrapping his arms around him in a loving and protective embrace until he finally settled into sleep. 

B.J. sat in the office of Dr. Adam Metcalfe, the facility administrator, a balding man with a pinched face. Metcalfe showed the young man a copy of the Financial Times. “Apparently this is what set off his latest attempt,” he pointed to an article.   
B.J. read the headline “Whitson Indicted for Embezzlement Charges!” He recognized the face on the picture, a gray haired man dressed in a typically fashionable suit. “Edward Whitson,” B.J. said without having to read the article. “He was my father’s financial advisor. I warned Dad not to trust him.” He read that Whitson stood accused of absconding funds from various companies and creating his own dummy corporation which then pocketed the money. He was willing to plead guilty for a lesser charge if he could name others who assisted in his scheme.  
“I don’t presume that your father will be one of the names,” Metcalfe asked. “A convicted criminal cannot have a place here, even if he has been acquitted.”  
B.J. grimaced. “I love my father truly but he isn’t bright enough to do something like this. Anyone who would talk to him for even a few minutes would know that. Metcalfe just wants to name him because Dad’s not in any condition to defend himself.”  
“I thought as much,” Metcalfe replied. “I am sure it is nothing more than that. But I do wish to discuss with you about your father’s placement in this facility.” B.J. listened. Already he didn’t like where this was going. “When he was admitted here, you paid for a year’s placement. However, that year will soon be up. If you wish for your father to receive our care, we must receive payment for him. We can work out either a lump sum payment of £1800 for the year or £150 per month.”  
“It used to be £1200 for the year,” B.J. objected.   
“Prices have gone up,” Metcalfe answered.   
B.J. rubbed his forehead. “And the alternatives?” he asked.   
Metcalfe shrugged. “Not too many private facilities will willingly take responsibility for a new patient with your father’s history of self-inflicted harm. The only other alternative would be for him to be admitted to a state run hospital.”   
B.J. shook his head. “No, in a place like that surrounded by people in worse condition than he is, with their senses gone? You might as well kill him now. Plus, they could only treat him for a time and then he would be back outside doing God knows what to his mind and body-probably drinking himself into oblivion or sitting inside a garage with the car running. I just can’t do that to him, I can’t.” B.J. sighed. “I’ll pay for him for the next year, probably in installments.”  
“Will you-?” Metcalfe began.   
“I’ll find a way to come up with the money,” B.J. said. He seemed to be saying that a lot lately.   
B.J. waited until he had left the administrator’s office. He stood outside the facility doors and sank down on one of the benches. The tears that he tried to hide or hold back finally came in full force. He wept for his father, for the Fraggles, for P.K, for the Captain, and for himself. For all of them who had to live in a world where everything that could be depended upon was now slipping away and may never return. 

B.J. knocked on the door of Arthur Pettijohn, the estate manager of the castle/hotel. The austere and domineering employer was not one of B.J’s favorite people. He often pushed the young caretaker extremely hard at work. B.J. didn’t know why but ever since he began working at the castle, the estate manager seemed to make his life’s mission to make B.J’s life miserable. He often gave him impossible tasks to complete, and he had to work harder and faster than the rest of the staff and had to get everything accomplished perfectly. No matter how hard B.J. worked, Pettijohn always found some reason to find fault with him.   
B.J. was particularly confused that Pettijohn didn’t seem to treat the other employees so high handed. Perhaps, because B.J.’s status as an outdoor servant got him signaled out for austerity. Maybe he said or did something that rubbed the older man the wrong way. It didn’t matter. If B.J. had any thought of resigning before, he certainly couldn’t now. He would just have to swallow and take whatever Mr. Pettijohn demanded of him. 

He entered upon hearing the estate manager tell him to come in. Mr. Pettijohn looked up from the ledger. “Ah Birtwhistle, in fact I was about prepared to send for you.”   
“Yes sir?” B.J. asked confused on what it could be. He received permission to leave for the Captain’s funeral. He couldn’t remember any transgressions that he made. What could he want from him? Perhaps it was some task that he needed to accomplish.  
“How is your father these days?” Mr. Pettijohn inquired.   
“Doing as well as he can sir,” B.J. answered somewhat suspicious. “May I ask why you wish to know?”   
“I just wonder how he can be doing after such a traumatic blow.” He held up a newspaper, the same Financial Times that Dr. Metcalfe showed him.   
“My father is an innocent man, sir,” B.J. said determined.   
“I’m sure that you think so,” Pettijohn mocked. “However, it would not look good for one of our staff to come from such a background. We have a proud reputation of success to achieve. The very fact that one of our employees, even one who is a lowly caretaker, has a criminal past or has a family member who does could not possibly enhance that reputation, now can it?”   
B.J. felt like he had been stabbed. “Are you discharging me sir?” How was he going to take care of his father and everyone else now?  
Pettijohn put his fingers together under his chin. He looked at the young man slyly. “I would if I had to. However, I am willing to admit that we cannot always be held to blame for what our relations do, so I don’t think it will have to go that far.”   
B.J. shook his head. “I hope not sir. In fact if you are so willing, I would like to work perhaps an extra shift or more hours. You see I have had some bad news lately-“  
“-Yes, yes Birtwhistle, I am not interested,” Pettijohn argued. His face lightened up as though he suddenly thought of an idea. “You wish to work more hours?”   
“Absolutely,” B.J. answered surprised that his employer was willing to give in.   
“It is very fortuitous that you would come to me this way because I have a bit of a dilemma,” Pettijohn sighed doing a perfect impression of a caring boss. “Unfortunately, we have had to let go of a few members of our staff and we are rather short handed.   
Budget cuts you understand. You could fill in for them on a temporary basis until we find permanent replacements.”   
“Sure,” B.J. answered. “Which ones?”  
Pettijohn ticked numbers off his fingers. “Well there’s that Lucy Guttridge, the chambermaid, Tobias Sydney, the bellman, oh and that girl who works in the kitchen staff, you know the one who washes dishes and cleans the floor-“  
“-Molly Carruthers,” B.J. guessed. That was too bad. He liked them. Molly and Lucy were really sweet and Toby was a lot of laughs. He wondered what any of them did to get sacked.   
“Yes, you can take on their duties along with your traditional caretaking responsibilities,” Pettijohn inquired.  
B.J. thought of what a schedule like that would be-collecting and returning guests’ baggages to and from their room, assisting guests with carrying objects to their appointments, starting fires, cleaning and vaccuuming the rooms and bathrooms, and making beds, scrubbing the kitchen floor and washing dishes along with any other kitchen chores, such as chopping salads or peeling potatoes, along with his usual tending the castle garden and ground, doing any major plumbing and repairs, and keeping the lobby and the outside clean and functioning.   
“It sounds like an awful lot of work for one person to do, sir,” B.J. began tactfully. “How would it be if myself and some of the other staff members contributed to the extra assignments and divided the responsibilities?”  
Pettijohn scoffed and returned to his paperwork. “Well Birtwhistle if you really don’t want to do any of it I will understand. I don’t suppose your next employer will be pleased to learn that you turned down a very generous offer-“  
B.J. held up one hand. “Wait, sir,” he said. “I said that I would do extra work and I will.”   
“Very good, Birtwhistle,” Pettijohn said. “You are no doubt aware that these extra chores will be a third of your regular salary.”   
“But, sir,” Birtwhistle said. “I’m barely making ends meet now and there are added expenses-“  
“-If you wish to take it up with someone then do so,” Pettijohn commanded. “I’m sure that your father will understand if you can no longer afford his hospice care.”   
B.J. felt trapped. Arthur Pettijohn knew all the right buttons to press. He knew that he would have to take the offer and he knew that he would hate it. He sighed at least maybe the extra work would help pay for the financial difficulties that he was under. Any rate, if he didn’t take it he would be letting everyone down. B.J. just couldn’t do that. His shoulders drooped and his back sagged. He suddenly felt very tired as though he were already carrying a huge weight. “Alright, I’ll take it.”  
“Good,” Pettijohn said as he looked at his watch. “Go to the kitchen to talk to Mrs. O’Connor. She will give you your new responsibilities.” He returned to the ledger as if to indicate that the conversation was over. 

 

P.K. stood inside Zeke’s Pawn Shop as the owner peered at the guitar almost like a mouse investigating a piece of cheese on a trap. In fact Zeke looked very rodential in his appearance with his large nose, jug ears, and pointed features. “Looks like its seen better days,” he said after several minutes of silence. He plucked at the strings carelessly. “Not in tune.”   
“There’s a tuner with it,” P.K. said holding up the small device.   
“Quite a few dents in the finish,” Zeke continued. He looked up. “I’ll give you 50p for it.”   
P.K. started. “But it cost £200 when my uncle bought it.”   
“When 20 years ago?” Zeke said sarcastically. “Final deal mate, take it or leave it.” P.K. gently touched the photograph hidden inside the case. The photo was of himself at age 13 with the Captain after his first performance at an amateur concert. It wasn’t a big deal, but the Captain was proud of the boy knowing that he could do it. P.K. always placed the photograph in the case almost as a talisman, a bit of encouragement from his uncle. He held the photograph tightly almost wrinkling it in his fists remembering when his uncle gave the guitar to him: 

It was P.K.’s 13th birthday and he was spending it alone for now. The Captain was off on one of his sailing voyages and wasn’t going to be back for some time. P.K. danced to The Clash’s “Rock the Casbah” inside his uncle’s seaside shack-home, smoking a cigarette and swallowing a lager. He was going to meet some of the lads that he had befriended at school. They were going to hijack a boat and go pub crawling on the Mainland far from any adult rules and restrictions. P.K. couldn’t wait. The Captain’s mixed breed dog, Spanner covered her ears irritated by the music even letting out an annoyed howl or bark. P.K. ignored her so wrapped up in the music and the upcoming fun he would have.

Suddenly the music stopped. Instead of hearing Joey Strummer singing about Sharif not liking it, P.K. heard the sound of a throat clearing. Spanner ran up to her master as delighted to see a familiar face as her future son, Sprocket, would be. She accepted the Captain’s pets and head scratches. She barked in the direction of the young teenager almost as though she were tattling on him. P.K. turned around and saw his uncle looking up from the dog and glaring at him with his arms folded. “I thought you were gone,” P.K. said.   
“For some odd reason, I thought that I would end this voyage early,” the Captain replied brusquely. “Something about a birthday or some such.” He looked around the house investigating the smoky air and alcohol. “Though I’m not sure you deserve it poisoning my ears with that noise as well as your body with all that.” He held up a stubbed cigarette that still smoldered on the table.   
P.K. snorted. “So what, I’ve seen you smoke pipes and drink. You’re a fine one to talk.”  
“Aye, I do,” the Captain answered. “That’s why I know they are bad things to get into and very hard to get out of. I’m sure those supposed mates of yours from school have anchored themselves here while I was gone.” He looked around the messy room as well as the various beer bottles and cans that had obviously been consumed by more than one person.   
P.K. rolled his eyes. “ We were just having some fun.”  
“Yes I can see that,” the Captain wryly said. “Fun destroying my house with your rowdiness.”  
“Don’t worry, we won’t be at this house any longer” P.K. argued.   
“Where are you going and what are you doing with them,” The Captain ordered.   
“I don’t know just around,” P.K. answered. “Like its any business of yours!”  
“It is en I have to pay your bail or worse have to identify the body,” the Captain sarcastically replied. P.K.’s eyes blazed but he didn’t say anything as his uncle continued. “Those boys are not but trouble!”  
“They’re the only thing that passes for life around here,” P.K. countered.   
“Life like that you don’t need,” the Captain argued. “They are headed for a bad end and so will you be, en you don’t watch yourself.”   
P.K. growled. “You aren’t the only one to say that to me.” After all many other foster parents predicted the same thing for him. P.K. Barnacle coming to a bad end was one of those certainties like the sun rising in the east or that on any given day the skies over Edinburgh would pour rain.   
“I grant you that,” the Captain replied. “But I’m probably the only one who is daft enough to prevent it from happening.”  
“Why?” P.K. scoffed.   
“Because I can see that there’s more than you are willing to see in yourself,” the Captain said. “Maybe its about time you saw it too.”  
P.K. didn’t want to show it, but his uncle’s words startled and confused him. In his strange awkward way, the older man admitted that he was concerned for the boy. P.K. was taken enough aback by the Captain’s words that he dropped his defensive posturing.”Like what?”  
The Captain reached into the hallway as he spoke. “Way I see it, you spend enough time here with very little to do and too much time on your hands. You’re bound to use up that time to stir up trouble.” He set a large package wrapped in plain brown paper on the settee next to the teen. “You may as well use that time to learn something useful.”  
P.K. opened the package to reveal an acoustic guitar inside a black guitar case. “I don’t know how to play,” P.K. said.   
“You can learn can’t you,” the Captain challenged. “I bought that ratty old thing at some junk shop. I figured you might as well make some use of it before it goes so I’se can get some peace and quiet around here instead of listening to that noise that sounds like several cats yowling over their last meal.”  
P.K. investigated the guitar carefully. The body was smooth and shiny. He could smell the plush interior and the leather exterior. He gently put his hands on the strings and they felt smooth like they hadn’t been plucked. He looked at one of the pockets to see a small box which he assumed contained extra strings, tuner, pick, and other items. The seal was not yet broken on the box. This wasn’t a used guitar from a junk shop. His uncle purchased the guitar brand new.   
“Thank you,” P.K. said moved by the gift.   
“That’s alright then,” the Captain replied modestly accepting the young man’s gratitude. 

P.K. stood in silence as Zeke divvied up the amount in his cash register. P.K. looked closely at the photograph.   
Zeke was about to hand the money to P.K. when the young man stopped him. “You know what never mind,” he said as he moved the guitar from the table. “Forget about it.” He placed the guitar and photo back in his case and left the pawn shop. The bell jingled as he shut the door behind him. 

P.K. staggered inside a pub and ordered a whiskey bottle. He had just been back from walking from one place to another job searching. Most of the employers said the same things, “Sorry we’re full up,” “There is a list of a hundred men before you,” etc.   
P.K. felt drained, spent, and just wanted a drink. He had already drank one, alright two, of the whiskey bottles that B.J. left for him in the shack and was pretty close to running low. He had very little money and now that sentiment got the better of him, he was not going to spend the night inside a hotel like he had planned. He was going to have to sleep on the streets. Well it wasn’t the first time. When one of his foster fathers chucked him out after a drunken fight, P.K. spent the better part of three months moving from derelict buildings to street corners. It was just a matter of being aware of everyone and everything around you, making yourself hidden from authority, and living with and depnding on almost nothing.   
He felt inside for the bills in his wallet. Maybe at least for the night it wouldn’t come to that. Perhaps if he offered to work at the pub overnight they may have a spare bed that he could rest his head on. He swallowed the drink and ordered another one. Maybe there were enough drinks in the U.K. that could drown out his feelings to the point of complete numbness.

Through the mirror, he could see a few images staring back at him. A couple of familiar creatures looked at him with disappointment, pleading, and friendship that P.K. did not deserve.   
“Will you just leave me the fuck alone?” P.K. demanded to the Fraggles in the bar. He periodically saw them follow him on the road. Sometimes it was Red and Gobo, sometimes all five. At first P.K. just ignored them, but when that didn’t work he figured that anger would. “Just get the hell away from me!”  
P.K. then heard an “oof” from behind and saw a very large man get up from the ground. The Scotsman looked down to see his foot jutting out, obviously he had accidentally tripped him. He gamely moved his foot backward, but the man grabbed him by the shirt collar.  
“You want to say that to me again, you scouse git?” he asked. P.K. felt glass shatter and realized that the man had caused his glass to break.   
P.K. was about to apologize, but he was just as angry and just as ready for a fight as this man was. Besides if the Fraggles were watching, maybe it would convince him that he was not and should never be a friend to them. “Well you are obviously deaf as well as stupid, I said get the hell away from me!”   
The other man said nothing but pounded P.K. with his fist. P.K. drew back clutching the bar and punched back. The two continued to brawl until the bar tender and a couple of other lads pulled them off each other. “Alright get out you,” he yelled at P.K. “Out and don’t ever come back in here!” 

P.K. glared at the man but realizing that there was little that he could do, he went outside in the chilly night. Gobo and Red stood outside the pub running up to him. “P.K. are you alright?”   
P.K. rolled his eyes. “Ach, do I have to make a sign? I can’t seem to get it through to you, any of you! I can’t help you! I can’t help anyone, not even myself! Go back to B.J.! He’s a good friend to you, he’s probably worried about you!”   
“But what about what the Trash Heap said?” Gobo asked.   
“I don’t care what your Trash Compacter said,” P.K. answered. “This time, she’s wrong! You’ll just have to tell her that!”  
“But we need you,” Gobo said.  
P.K. stopped and turned around. “Then you’re a complete fool to do so.” He then picked up his guitar and rucksack and left the Fraggles behind.  
Gobo was about to follow the Silly Creature behind when Red held him back. “Forget it, Gobo. He’s just a Silly Creature. He won’t listen to us. He probably doesn’t even care about us.”   
“Well I don’t believe that,” Gobo said. “The magic chose him to meet us. There’s a reason. He wants to be our friend.”  
“Well he sure has a funny way of showing it,” Red reminded him. “ Gobo forget it. He’s not going to want to talk to you or me. He won’t listen to us.”  
“Well who will he listen to then?” Gobo asked.  
Red didn’t have the slightest idea, but a familiar sound carried over the city evening. It sounded hypnotic, welcoming. Suddenly, a strange thought occurred to her. “Gobo, listen.”   
“Red, I don’t hear anything except those Metal Animals that Silly Creatures ride, and the other noises around here. I wonder how Uncle Traveling Matt put up with it.” Before Gobo could go off on another tangent about Uncle Traveling Matt’s stories, Red pushed on her friend’s face wanting him to listen closer. After a few seconds, Gobo heard it too. They had an idea over who might be able to get through to P.K. 

P.K. felt the wind slice through him and held the guitar case close to him as he walked. Since his temper got the better of him, he certainly wasn’t going to be spending the night in a pub. Looks like it was going to be a night in the streets after all. P.K. slowly staggered under a nearby bridge where various people had gathered for the night.   
P.K. could see other homeless people gathering around huddling near make-shift fires for what little warmth or security that they had. P.K. sat down towards one of the fires inconspicuous not really wanting to make conversation, so he remained as far from anyone else as possible but still retained some of the warmth from the fires. He rubbed his hands together willing them to be warm and stamped his feet a bit. He sat down on the ground and opened his rucksack. He opened one of the whiskey bottles and drank it feeling the warmth from the alcohol as well as the promised relief from pain that it provided. He pulled out a very thin blanket and wrapped it around his body. Then he held his guitar closely almost like a security blanket and lay his head on the rucksack for a makeshift pillow. He hugged himself for warmth, for protection, and to will himself to sleep.   
He didn’t know how long he had slept, but a strange sound woke him up. He was used to the sounds of cars, drunken voices, and other city noises. But this sound seemed to rise higher than them. It had a soft lilting melody like a strange pipe that played in the wind. P.K. raised his head to some of the people gathered by the fire. “Oi, any of you hear those pipes?” he asked. The other derelicts ignored him as they returned to the fire. P.K. shrugged, it was probably his imagination. He was about to fall asleep when he felt something or rather didn’t feel something. His arms were empty. He was no longer holding his guitar. He sat up straight realizing that his guitar was missing. He looked around the bridge going from one homeless person to another but couldn’t see any signs of the guitar. He cursed under his breath. Whoever stole it probably ran off and may have even pawned it already. So now he had no guitar and no money, what else could go wrong? Suddenly rain poured from the sky. The homeless people ran for any shelter that they could find. Some groaned at the fires that were put out. P.K. glowered, but gathered his rucksack and moved on to find some place to hide out the rain if he could. 

The young Scotsman continued to walk in the rain feeling the cold downpour sear into his clothes. This was the second time in less than a week, he ended up soaking wet. It must have been some kind of record making P.K. Barnacle a prime candidate for pneumonia before he reached 30. He tried to look for some shelter that he could crawl into to wait out the storm, an awning that he could stand under, an old building with minimal security, a pub, even a homeless shelter. Somewhere he could go for a few hours. He didn’t want to think beyond that. He couldn’t afford to think beyond the next few minutes or hours. He couldn’t lose himself in any grief for his uncle, or regrets over the things that he said to B.J. and the Fraggles, or any type of longing for anything other than mere survival. He just had to live day to day, that’s all he had to do. He tried to remember if he had any whiskey bottles left inside his rucksack. He felt around inside glad that at least there was one. P.K. leaned against a building and held the bottle to his chest as he opened it. It was the only thing that he had now. 

He was about to drink the bottle when he heard the music of the pipes again. Once again, they played over the sounds around him as though they were trying to grab P.K.’s attention. P.K. looked at the building confused. The music seemed to come from inside, but that was odd. If it came from here, he wouldn’t have heard it under the bridge earlier. It was too far away from the bridge. P.K. stepped back and looked closely at the building. 

While the building had seen better days, the art deco style in front as well as the double doors revealed it to be an abandoned theatre. P.K. could hear the music coming from inside the theatre as though it were calling to him. He put his hand on the door latch expecting it not to open, but surprisingly it did. Relieved, P.K. entered the door and stood in the lobby. He allowed himself a few minutes to get dry and slightly warm as he looked around. The theatre looked like it had once been very grand and ornate with classical statues and columns, but it was clearly no longer in service. The carpeting had a strong mildew smell. Posters of previous performances had long peeled making it difficult to read any of the names. Cobwebs and dust filled the walls. The whole building seemed to be one of death and decay. P.K. leaned against one of the walls ready to listen for the rain to recede, so he could move on once more when he heard the pipe music again. Now that he was closer, he could hear strings and drums accompany the pipe. Curious but very wary, P.K. entered the auditorium feeling almost hypnotized by the music that surrounded him. 

The music stopped as soon as P.K. entered the auditorium. He rubbed his head feeling exhausted. He did not want to go any further, figuring that he could curl up somewhere in the auditorium and sleep for the night. Perhaps one of the seats could be in use for that purpose. P.K. felt around the old seats, most of them broken or falling apart. He kept walking until he approached the front seats. The seats were intact, but something was on one of them. P.K. warily approached the black case on the seat. After close inspection, he gasped in surprise and opened the familiar case. His guitar lay inside unharmed. Just to be sure, the photograph of P.K. and his uncle still lay in the compartment. The young man sank to the seat confused, but moved that his property had been returned to him.   
Suddenly, he heard the music again. He looked up to see a small band of five creatures playing instruments on the stage. The leader, an orange creature removed the pipe from his lips and looked directly at the lone audience member.   
“It seems that you are in the right place and the right time,” the odd creature said. “It is a good thing that the Song brought you here.”   
P.K. shook his head. “I just came in to get warm and dry.”  
“Well you are warm and you are dry and you are still here,” the creature said.   
P.K. glanced at the strange band. “You are all Fraggles aren’t you?” he said.   
“Oh he’s a sharp one,” the purple guitarist said sarcastically.   
The orange leader did not acknowledge his bandmate’s comment. “I am Cantus and these are the Minstrels.”  
P.K. rolled his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He felt as angry as he did earlier with Gobo and Red, but something about Cantus made him want to control himself. “Listen, I already told Gobo and Red that-“  
“-Yes you told them,” Cantus added. “But did you tell yourself?”  
P.K. felt his head spin. “Well yeah, I don’t know,” he said. He gathered his things and was about to turn around. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll be going.”   
“Where are you running from?” Cantus asked.   
P.K. shrugged. “I don’t know. Look for work I suppose.”   
“No, I did not ask where you were running to. I know where you are running to,”   
Cantus patiently corrected. “I asked where you were running from?”  
“What’s the difference as long as I get somewhere,” P.K. asked.  
“Well the difference is in the shoes,” Cantus replied.   
The Scotsman felt like he had somehow slipped through a rabbit hole and was talking to one of the characters from Wonderland. “ There is just too much going on right now.”  
“It must be exhausting to have so little to run to and so much to run from,” Cantus replied.   
“Terribly,” P.K. answered wearily. He started when he realized that he was agreeing with the strange being. “Don’t you travel?”  
Cantus and the Minstrels nodded. “That we do, but we always know where we are headed and we know where we came from. Do you know either?”   
“The only thing that I know is I just want to be left alone,” P.K. answered trying to find a reasonable explanation that this odd creature would accept and wanting once again to leave.  
Cantus nodded at the guitar case. “Music is not meant to be alone and a guitar is not meant to unplayed. If Music is not shared, it finds its home elsewhere.”   
P.K. gaped in surprise at the Fraggle’s meaning. “So it was you that took my guitar?”   
“It was you who did not take it,” Cantus answered. “But you found it again and it found you, so you can play it once more.”   
P.K. shook his head. The longing for a drink was returning. “I can’t play anymore.”   
“The Song will be played whether you pluck the strings or not, but something keeps you from hearing it,” Cantus said.   
“Maybe it doesn’t want me to hear it,” P.K. replied. “Maybe I don’t deserve to hear it.”   
“The Song does not base its listeners on whether they deserve it or not,” Cantus said. “Only the Listener does.” He was about to put the pipe to his lips to play another song, but then added as an afterthought.”You are keeping yourself running and not listening. You drink so you do not run and you run so you do not listen.You let what you are drinking block what you should be listening.”   
P.K. wanted to deny it wanted to shout that this creature did not know anything but he couldn’t. He couldn’t deny a word. “It keeps me from hurting and feeling pain,” P.K. said.   
“And have you stopped hurting and feeling pain?” Cantus asked.  
P.K. looked downward. “No,” he said feeling like a child who needed to confess his sins. “All I feel is numb. If I’m not hurting, I’m not feeling anything else.”  
“Then you fill it with something else. You fill it with your Song. You fill it with yourself,” Cantus replied.  
“But what if they don’t want me to,” P.K. said. “What if what I have isn’t worth filling?”  
“How can it be if you don’t even try to,”Cantus asked as if saying something that was so simple to him and should have been to P.K. He put the pipe to his lips as the Minstrels played again and sang:  
Music grows in the rose  
Rock and rain and the blowin' snowstorm  
Everything seems to sing  
Everywhere I go  
I say 1, 2, play me do  
Let me sound as sweet as you  
Play me wide  
Play me long  
Let me be your song  
Play me down on the ground  
Song comes singing from the midnight places  
Raise me high in the sky  
Song comes drifting through  
I say 1, 2, play me do  
Let me sound as sweet as you  
Play me wide  
Play me long  
Let me be your song  
Play me high  
Play me low  
Play me where the wild winds blowing  
Play me wide  
Play me long  
Play me for your song  
I say 1, 2 , play me do  
Let me sound as sweet as you  
Play me wide  
Play me long  
Let me be your song

Listening to the minstrels play gave P.K. a sense of euphoria and peace that he hadn’t felt in a long time since his uncle became sick. Somehow without planning for it or waiting for an invitation to join, P.K. absently opened the guitar case and played along with them. He felt his fingers dance along the strings. He felt that enjoyable connection that he always felt when he played in front of people whether it was just his uncle or Sprocket or a pub full of listeners. He forgot how good it felt to play his guitar and how wonderful it was to share his music with the people around him. In the course of the song, P.K. allowed all of the anger, frustration, despair, and depression just disappear from him.   
When the Minstrels and P.K. stopped, P.K. applauded. “Thank you, I forgot how much I missed playing,” he said. He owed Gobo an apology for stopping when they sang together. Actually he owed him and the other Fraggles an apology for a lot of things.   
“It is our gift to you a reminder that you are not alone,” Cantus said. “Now you share your Song, share the magic with others.”   
“You mean B.J. and the other Fraggles,” P.K. translated.  
“No, you know who you meant,” Cantus answered. He and the other Minstrels lined up and then danced off the auditorium in perfect unison playing their instruments as they moved.   
P.K. waited until he was alone. He opened his rucksack and took out the final whiskey bottle. He popped the cork and put the bottle to his lips. He stopped then tipped the bottle over so the whiskey poured onto the ground. He then slung the bottle to a nearby wall sending it shattering. P.K. sighed happily as he took out the photograph from the guitar case. “Well I’m ready to look ahead if you are,” he said to the spirit of his uncle.


End file.
